


Patisserie

by WickedlyEmma



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, I cannot express how little I remember about the plot of this show, I feel like I should specify that, Multi, No Incest, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Self-Indulgent, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy, Sugar... Family?, The Author Regrets Nothing, Updates on Mondays, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedlyEmma/pseuds/WickedlyEmma
Summary: You're a baker with few dreams and no intentions of ever knowing that vampires exist. Klaus Mikaelson has other ideas.// Come for the polyamory Originals family x reader fic, stay for the recipes in the note’s section
Relationships: Elijah Mikaelson/Klaus Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Elijah Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Elijah Mikaelson/Reader, Finn Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Finn Mikaelson/Reader, Freya Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Freya Mikaelson/Reader, Klaus Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Klaus Mikaelson/Reader, Kol Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Kol Mikaelson/Reader, Rebekah Mikaelson/Original Female Character(s), Rebekah Mikaelson/Reader
Comments: 375
Kudos: 638





	1. Meringue

“You’re sure you can finish the pastry cart?” Kate asks, but she’s already untying her apron and tossing it in the hamper.

“Don’t pretend to care,” you say, “You’re leaving me.”

She laughs. “Not my fault my shift is over, baby girl.” She unbuttons her chef’s coat and tosses it aside.

“See you tomorrow, Kate,” you say, waving with a flour covered hand.

“Good luck with the plating.”

You wave her off. “Yeah, yeah.”

When Kate leaves, it’s just you in the kitchen. It’s late and the rest of the staff has gone home. It’s Sunday after the restaurant is closed, and you can’t even hear the general noise of families eating dinner. It’s eerie. The walls seem to crowd you. You aren’t often left alone like this, but your manager is home sick with the flu. The downside of having children, you guess.

The silence starts to get to you, so you put in your headphones

You’re almost done rolling the roulade for tomorrow when you hear a loud crash through the tinny music playing from your headphones. You jump, catching the scream before it has a chance to escape your throat. Pausing your music, you listen intently for another sound. You’re about to press play when you hear something else. Voices. They don’t sound too happy. The sound is still too indistinct for you to understand what they’re saying, but you don’t need to hear their words in order to hear the underlying anger.

Fuck, you think, are you being robbed? Not your problem, your boss can take it.

Something crashes and it sounds like it happened right next to your ear.

Well, you correct yourself belatedly, it’s your problem if you get murdered in the middle of a robbery.

Your eyes dart to the only door to the kitchen. There’s no way out except through the front of the building. No escape for you, it seems. The voices get louder and you lose any inclination towards trying to escape. They’re too close. You frantically search for somewhere to hide. Your eyes pause on the freezer and think better of it. (You’re trying to avoid a horror movie ending of dying trapped in a sub-zero box). You turn to the the dry ingredient closet. Would they find you there? You don’t have a weapon. You cast a nervous look towards the door, attention catching on the large knife in the kitchen block.

Well, you think anxiously, it couldn’t fucking hurt.

You grab it and scurry to the pantry, tucking yourself behind bags of flour. And not a moment too soon.

The kitchen door bangs open and you can hear the shouting reverberating in your skull. You clutch the knife tighter in your hand, grip slippery with anxiety.

“—What IS IT with you and this stupid little town? Don’t you have better things to do than antagonize a seventeen year old girl?” A man yells.

“Don’t you have better things to do than drag me into a restaurant to express your grievances? I frankly have better things to do with my time than hear a list of every time I’ve wronged pretty little Elena.”

You shiver a little at the second man’s voice. It sounds low and deadly: cold compared to the brash anger in the other man’s voice. You shift a little in discomfort against the bags of flour, knife scraping softly against the iron shelves. For a moment, both men pause.

Dread drops in your stomach like a stone. There’s no way they heard you moving, you’re certain of that. But it doesn’t stop the seed of doubt from planting itself in you. You almost breathe a sigh of relief when they continue arguing.

“Elena’s not the only one you’ve wronged. What about me?” The voice shouts. He sounds almost whiny. “You took my brother away from me, it’s only fair if I do the same thing. I wonder what Rebekah will do when-”

There’s a snap and then dead silence. Oh god. The only thing you can hear in the pitch black closet is the sound of your blood in your ears. They don’t know you’re in here, you reassure yourself. They can’t. Belatedly, you remember the unfinished roulade, the flour coating the floor. White footprints. Your knuckles blanch on the knife handle.

You stifle a soft sound in your throat when you hear careful footsteps on the tile floor, getting closer to your hiding spot.

Please don’t, you beg internally.

Fate obviously wasn’t listening to you, and hasn’t been for a while.

The door creaks open on its hinges and you hold your breath. The bright light filters in. All you can see is a dark outline of a man.

“I know you’re in here,” he says. His voice is low and sends a shiver up your spine. “I can hear your heart beating like a rabbit.”

Your heart has a palpitation at that and he laughs.

“There’s no need to hide,” he says, bending down, “I won’t hurt you.” Faster than you can comprehend, he rips the bag of flour covering you away and tosses it to the side.

“Well, hello there,” he says. He leans down in a slow, creeping motion, grinning wide with white teeth. He doesn’t look like any armed robber that you’ve ever seen. His blond curls and flat eyes make him unsettlingly… pretty for a criminal. He’s not even wearing a mask.

You’ve heard that’s a bad thing, you think, if they let you see their face.

His eyes drift down and catch on the gleam of the knife in your hand. You forgot it was there.

“What do we have here?” He asks, taking your wrist in his grasp, “Going to stab me, love?”

You could. Technically— physically, you know. He’s not restraining you. You don’t know how much strength it takes to cut through human flesh, but it can’t be much harder than slicing a watermelon. You’re trembling.

In reality, you can’t do it. You drop the knife and it clatters to the ground, hands shaking with the idea of what you could’ve done. You’re pathetic. The man’s smile widens.

“Good girl.”

He hauls you up by your wrists and a frightened noise escapes out of your throat. The pantry door is wide open and through it you catch sight of a dark-haired man lying on the floor, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. You feel bad for calling him whiny.

“Oh _God_.”

The man’s grip tightens around your wrists and he forces you to look him in the eye.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he intones, “You’re going to forget this happened. You came in, finished your tasks, and left at a normal time. No one ever came in.”

“Yes sir,” you squeak. It might be your imagination, but you think his grip slackens for a moment in surprise. He tilts his head and examines you. Distantly, you notice you’re still shaking.

“Go.”

“Yes sir.” He releases you and you dark away just as quickly. You hover at the doorway of the pantry, unwilling to walk over the corpse in front of you.

“What now?” The annoyance in the man’s voice is the encouragement you need to step over the deadman’s head.

“I- I just…” Your eyes land on your abandoned roulade as you edge away from the irritated murderer. “I need to finish the roulade or my boss will be really mad at me.”

For a moment, you think you’re going to end up just like the corpse on the floor of the kitchen. You’d scold yourself if you didn’t think you were currently going into shock. He stares at you with the dark, unfaltering look in his eyes before breaking into laughter.

“Don’t worry about your pastries,” he says as he edges towards you. He corners you against one of the tables just as effectively as a dog herding sheep. “Everything will be just as it should be when you return.”

He’s close enough you can smell his cologne, but you can’t make yourself look any higher than the collar of his shirt.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s another pause and you’re too afraid to look up to see what’s in his eyes.

“Now look at me.”

You give an infinitesimal shake of your head. You don’t think you can.

“ _Look_ at me,” he growls, hand reaching up to grab your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. A cry escapes your lips— sounding pathetic even to your ears.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to walk to your car and drive home.” His pupils dilate when he talks in that slow voice. His eyes are blue, you realize. “You’re going to go about your evening routine without sparing a thought for what happened tonight. If anyone asks, nothing strange has ever happened here. Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, but it isn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

You flush hotly. “I understand, sir.”

“Now leave.”

You stumble in your haste to get away from that place, keys shaking in your hand as you try to fit them into the lock of your car. You don’t remember getting home, just the eerie darkness of the drive back and your total indifference to any posted speed limits.

You don’t stop trembling until you fall asleep that night, wrapped in the safe confinements of your own house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware that no one cares about this fandom anymore, but I cannot legally keep this collecting dust in my writing folder any longer. Please enjoy my self-indulgent fantasy of someone paying for my student loans.
> 
> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me, I'm on tumblr @wickedlyemma


	2. Choux

The next time you go to work there’s no blood pool on the floor of the kitchen: only flour and bits of egg shell where Megan was too excited separating egg yolks. You wonder if you imagined the whole thing. The finished roulade says otherwise.

You’re quiet for the rest of your shift, something that concerns your coworkers. You don’t know what to say to them, so you lie through your teeth and tell them you’re just tired.

Well, it’s not completely a lie.

You don’t know how to explain to them that yesterday you saw a dead body right where they’re making cake batter. Even if you did, you have no proof— to the point where even you are beginning to doubt what you saw. Crazy doesn’t run in your family as far as you know, but hell if you’re not a rebel.

You’re dead on your feet by the time you clock out, tossing your apron in the hamper. You bust through the double doors leading to the body of the restaurant and freeze in your tracks.

He’s there. Or at least, you think he is. It’s too dark to really tell. Blond hair curls around him like a halo, dim light bouncing off high cheekbones. He’s sitting in a corner booth with a man whose back is to you. There’s a glass of wine so dark it looks like blood in his hand.

Almost like he can sense you, the murderer’s eyes lock onto yours. It’s him. They’re just as cold as you remember, lit only with a spark of dangerous curiosity. A chill runs down your spine so violently you convulse. You force your frozen limbs to move, hurrying through the restaurant. You can feel his eyes burning into your back.

You make it all the way back to your car, keys shaking in your hand. The keys are halfway in the lock when you’re slammed against the door, back pressing into the glass.

It’s him.

You suck in a terrified breath and look at him through blown pupils.

His head tilts as he observes you. He reminds you of a fox stalking his prey.

You don’t enjoy feeling like a rabbit.

“You remember me, don’t you?” He asks flatly.

You nod violently, too terrified to speak.

“You didn’t follow my instructions,” he says flatly.He says it like it isn’t a question, but the way his fingers anchor themselves in your flesh convince you otherwise.

“I did— I did, I swear! I didn’t tell anyone what happened.”

His lip curls. He’s so close you bet he can see the reflection of himself in your terrified eyes. He must see something else there because he draws back.

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

You nod frantically.

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “Only one way to check.”

He leans in close again; so close that you think he’s going to kiss you. Dread drops in your stomach and you feel like you’re going to throw up. You’re shaking so violently you can barely stand. You’re almost relieved when instead he brushes your hair to the side and leans in towards your neck.

You’re petrified with fear as he lingers there, wondering what he’s going to do. You don’t want to wait long.

Pain erupts at the juncture of your shoulder. You’d scream if it wasn’t for his hand clamping your mouth shut. Less than a second after it starts, he darts away hissing and you’re left with a burning agony in your neck. You’ve never felt anything like this before: not when you broke your arm when you were nine, not when you had the stomach flu for a month straight. It’s like dizzy fire, burning through your veins.

“Vervain,” he says, voice rough. He’s glaring at you like he’s the one that’s hurt.

“What are you even talking about??” Your voice progressively gets higher. Your hand is slick with blood where your desperately trying to tamp down the bleeding.

“You have no idea, do you?” He comments. His eyes pierce you almost as deeply as his teeth. “I wonder who’s protecting you.”

You feel panic constricting your throat, your head growing light. The only reason you’re still standing is the fact you’re leaning up against the car.

“I don’t know,” you sob against your will. You wonder if you’ll make it out of this alive.

He moves towards you a touch too fast— a touch too sharp and a frightened sound exits your lips. He looks at you impatiently.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”

You eye him warily. “You already did.”

“Barely, it’ll heal on its own. You’re in no danger of dying,” he says cryptically, “Now tell me, who knows about what you saw?”

You catch a sob in your throat. “No one, I already told you!”

You’re afraid he’s not going to believe you and murder you here in this dimly lit parking lot. You haven’t given your death much thought before, but the looming possibility terrifies you. You try to force yourself to breathe, sucking cold air in through your nose. The man just watches you, eyes blank. He doesn’t try to approach you, he just stays silent, looking at you in that peculiar way of his.

“You’re telling the truth,” he realizes, gazing at you thoughtfully. You think it’s rhetorical, but you don’t think you could respond if it wasn’t. “Why did you not say anything about what happened the other night?” He eventually asks, "You were under no compulsion to.”

“I… I don’t know.” You can tell by the press of his mouth that he doesn’t like your answer. He takes a step toward you and you yelp, but he doesn’t come any closer.

“You step over a deadman to escape from a murderer and none of your instincts propel you to report it to anyone?” He scoffs at your silence. “I can’t tell whether you’re a coward or lack any sort of self preservation.”

You bristle, struck by the heat of courage that doesn’t come naturally to you. “Wouldn’t you have killed me tonight if I had told anyone? I’d call that self preservation.”

He laughs, low and short. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Go home.”

You don’t waste time jamming your keys in the lock on your car. He stands there, watching you, as you peel away in the dark parking lot. Your blood is smeared on the driver’s side window. You should go to the hospital, you know, but you don’t. You don’t want to deal with the thousand dollar price tag that comes along with that. You have some bandages at home, you muse. And some antibiotics.

Yeah, you think as you slide through another stop sign, you’ll be fine.

You get home miraculously in one piece. The only thing propelling you up the steps to your front porch is sheer willpower at this point. You fumble with the keys to your house, forgetting to lock your car. The agony in your neck has faded to a dull throb. Idly, you hope you haven’t lost too much blood. You want nothing more than to go to sleep.

You suspect if you do that now, you won’t wake up.

You stumble your way into the bathroom and open up the cabinet. Blinking, you try to clear your vision. The only reason you’re able to identify your antibiotics is by the shape of the bottle. You take one and two Tylenol for good measure. It’s hard to clean the wound on your neck at this angle, but you do it to the best of your ability and tape it back up with ace bandages. Eyes bleary, you manage to find your way and collapse on the bed. The spinning ceiling exacerbates your nausea and you close your eyes. You really hope you wake up tomorrow.

If you die, you’re going to haunt that motherfucker.

Strangely, the thought sends you to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly broke right now that this is quickly becoming my comfort fic. I have also completely written and edited the first 6 chapters, so y'all have that to look forward to :)


	3. Galette

You do end up waking up the next morning, but you really wish you hadn’t. You groan as you sit up, head swimming in a way you have little experience with.

You barely make it to the toilet before throwing up what’s left of your stomach contents. You vomit until nothing comes up and you’re gagging with tears in your eyes.

Yeah. Definitely worse than a hangover.

You call into work that morning saying you’ve caught the flu. Your boss says she hopes you feel better soon and warns you to not miss too much work or else you’ll be back on 12 hour shifts.. You slowly sip a glass of water and pray you won’t throw it back up. You’re not sure how long it will be until you can go back to work. Too long, you’re certain, for your boss.

You prop yourself up against some pillows on your bed, ice water within reach, and resign yourself to a long day in bed.

*

You end up calling off the next day too. The wound on your neck feels hot and sticky even though you just cleaned it. You still can’t stop throwing up, vomiting up even the dry saltines you had earlier. By nightfall, you haven’t managed to keep even the antibiotics down. You’re close to tears with exhaustion. Barely able to move, you lie comatose in your bed, shivering and hot. You wait for sleep that doesn’t come. Briefly, you wish you had your mom to take care of you. You stamp out the feeling.

You’re tossing and turning fitfully in your bed when there’s a knock at your door. You think you’ve imagined it in the fits of your fever until you hear it again. A bone deep weariness confines you to the bed.

You could always ignore it, you think.

_Knockknockknockknockkno-_

Groaning, you roll out of bed and stumble slowly towards the door, holding onto the turning walls for support. You pause by the bathroom and swallow the urge to vomit. The door swings open.

“What do you wa-”

Whoever you were expecting to be at your doorstep isn’t there. Instead, there’s the man that’s been featured in your nightmares since you met him.

You try to slam the door on him, but his hand stops it. Strangely, he doesn’t try to come in.

“None of that,” he says, “I only came to check on you.”

“Check on me?” Your voice is hysterical.

“It seems I was just in time.” His eyes gaze over you like he actually cares. You know better.

“You’re the one who did this to me,” you hiss, too exhausted to be scared.

He seems affronted. “I believe I was only responsible for the hole in your neck. If you had gone to the hospital, you’d have been perfectly fine.”

Your eyes burn. You try to rub it away, but only succeed in making it worse.

“What do you want?”

He’s silent for so long, you think he left. You take your hands off your eyes to see that, unfortunately, that is not the case.

“Come outside.”

You want to refuse on principle. The ache in your neck persuades you. Right now, you’re liable to do whatever anyone tells you.

You’re just so tired.

It’s not like he can kill you easier outside, you reason.

You step onto the front porch, the night air swimming in front of you like the heat atop a grill. The man catches you as you stumble, laying you out on the porch steps. The wood digs into the back of your head and your body heat leaves you all at once. Your teeth chatter.

Well, you think to yourself as you look up at the night sky, you’d rather die outside than in the fever-heat of your bedroom. You shiver uncontrollably as the man tilts your head towards him. You struggle to turn away.

“Shhh,” he says, “You’ll be alright.” He brushes your face once. You shiver like you’re having a full body seizure. He lifts his wrist to his mouth and bites into it. The sound scrapes the inside of your ear drums and you would vomit if you had anything left in you. He lifts his wrist to your mouth and you can smell the iron in the clots forming in the wound. You try to close your mouth, but he holds it insistently at your lips until you’re forced to open. A broken cry tries to escape around his wrist, but there’s no one here to help you. You choke on the liquid and wish you were strong enough to force this psychopath away from you.

You’ve made a mistake. This isn’t how you wanted to go out, laying in the arms of a killer with his blood coating your throat. You should’ve stayed in your bedroom, hidden until it was too late and you simply fell asleep.

He takes his wrist away from you and picks you up in his arms.

“Unless you intend on sleeping on the porch tonight, I suggest inviting me in,” he says dryly.

The cold air seeps into you like freezing water. “You’re the weirdest serial killer I’ve ever met.”

He laughs.

“I was serious earlier,” he tacks on, “You need to invite me in.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He hesitates, shifting you in his arms. “Klaus,” he says finally, “Klaus Mikaelson.”

Fuck it. “Would you like to come in, Klaus?”

You can’t see his face from your position, but you can sense him smiling. “Of course.”

He steps over the boundary of your doorstep and carries you to your bedroom. The concerning fact that he knows where it is brushes past you. He lays you down in your bed and covers up your shivering body with your duvet.

“Go to sleep,” he orders.

You look at him listlessly, too tired to turn your head away from him.

“Will I wake up?” You ask.

He looks at you in that eerie blank way of his. It’s the face of someone who doesn’t know what emotion to be portraying at that moment.

“Yes,” he says, “On my life.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes and slip underneath the blanket of consciousness, doubtful that you’ll live to see the morning.

*

You blink awake to the smell of bacon in the air. That alone is worrying, considering your roommate abandoned you three months ago. What’s more concerning is the fact that you feel great. There’s no lingering pain in your neck. No exhaustion. No soreness in your throat from bile eating away at your esophagus. Your mouth still tastes like death, but that’s not new. You get up carefully, but the room never starts spinning like how you fear. You feel like you could run for miles.

A clatter in the kitchen reminds you that there’s someone in your house. You edge quietly out of your bedroom and catch sight of blond hair at the stove.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Klaus says, “I was wondering when you’d come out.”

Your stomach drops and you feel like you’re drifting somewhat outside of your body. Your hands shake.

At your silence, the man turns around.

“Oh come now, I’m not going to hurt you.” You stay silent and he sighs. He moves the pan off heat.

“Would I have gone to the trouble of making breakfast for someone if I planned to murder them just after they woke?”

“From what little I know of you, that doesn’t seem outside your wheelhouse,” you snipe.

His lips twitch like he wants to smile. His eyes rove over you. “You look terrible,” he says bluntly, “Breakfast isn’t ready yet. Go take a shower. I’ll serve you when you’re done.”

You nod stiffly. In the bathroom, you’re unsurprised to discover that he was right. There’s dried blood on the side of your neck and your face is pale and gaunt. You look like shit. You brush the side of your neck to test for pain and blood flakes off in large chunks.

Gagging, you turn on your shower.

As you wait for the water to heat up, you’re grateful for the opportunity to brush the taste of bile from your mouth. You use half of your bottle of mouthwash by the time you’re satisfied. When you step in the shower you’re struck by the awareness that you haven’t taken a shower in four days. The water runs rust brown with dried blood. You’re vaguely disgusted and you scrub until your skin is pink and the water runs clear. You take the time afterward to examine yourself in the mirror. The gaping wound on your neck is gone. You trace the silver scar lines in its place.

You wonder, if Klaus hadn’t arrived, how much longer you would’ve lasted. You dislike the idea of being indebted to him. The steam clears and a chill runs up your spine.

Belatedly, you realize you didn’t bring any clothes in. Disgust claws up your throat as you wrap yourself in two towels and slip from the bathroom into your bedroom. Thankfully, Klaus doesn’t turn around.

You’re not sure what you would do if he did.

Once the bedroom door is closed behind you, you dress quickly— too afraid of Klaus losing patience and barging in to take your time. You cover up as much as possible, not just because of the cold weather outside. When you leave the safety of your bedroom, you see that Klaus has set out two place settings at your breakfast bar. Reluctantly, you sit at one of the barstools and Klaus stands on the other side.

“Thanks for breakfast,” you bite out. You don’t want to eat, but your stomach reminds you that you haven’t managed to keep anything down in days.

You take a bite of bacon and it’s tasteless in your mouth.

Klaus watches you as you eat like he’s fascinated despite himself. The silence between you is awkward, but you remain too petrified to break it.

“Are you not going to ask?” He says finally.

You take another bite of bacon. “Ask what?”

Klaus stares at you like he’s never seen you before. He tilts his head in that birdlike way of his. “I can’t tell if you’re an idiot or not.”

You don’t respond.

He watches you silently as you eat, resting his forearms on the counter. He doesn’t try to eat anything. You wonder if he can. Klaus stays until you finish your plate and loads the dishwasher for you. You’re convinced he’s going to kill you as soon as he’s done, but instead he hangs up your dishtowel to dry and brushes your hair to the side to look at your neck. Your skin crawls at the close proximity. You look away. He hums.

“The scar should fade in a few days,” he says. You don’t know if you believe him.

“Thank you,” you bite out.

His thumb traces over your carotid. “Given our track record, I’m sure I’ll see you again soon,” he says. He’s gone in an instant and you’re left with a clean kitchen and indescribable feeling in the pit of your stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is Technically monday and I've been wanting to update all week <3 Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter ;)


	4. Eclair

You’re not stupid. You read Dracula in high school, and despite the fact that your Sophomore year was a decade or two ago, you still remember the highlights of the novel. That’s why you’re not exactly surprised when you come home one day after work and Klaus is already there.

He turns the lamp on as you hang up your purse. You’d be more scared than startled if he didn’t act like a B-movie villain.

“Oh,” you say, “You’re back.”

“You invited me in.”

“Not permanently,” you grumble. You consider how this evening will go and decide you don’t really want to be maimed again.

“Do you want dinner?” You ask. “If you eat people-food, I guess.”

Klaus looks taken aback.

“I do, occasionally.”

Ah, so he can.

“Fantastic.”

You brush past him, still sitting in your arm chair, and head towards your tiny kitchen. He follows in after you. It’s barely big enough for two people, but you can make it work.

“Dice the tomatoes for me?” You hand him a knife and a cutting board. He has that odd blank expression on his face again. He does as you request and you’re annoyed to note that they’re all evenly sized cubes. You chop up an onion with abandon before adding it to a saucepan with the tomatoes and basil. You set the pasta water on high heat.

“Can you get the pasta?” You ask, “There’s some angel hair in the cabinet.”

Klaus obeys your request and sets it on the counter.

“I would think one would get tired of cooking day in and day out— considering that’s what you do for your job as well.”

“I’m mostly a pastry chef,” you say dryly. The silence lingers for a moment. “I think everyone feels that fatigue sometimes, but it’s always more fun cooking for more than just me.”

Klaus’s lips curl up in a smile. “Is this your way of saying you missed me?”

A laugh bursts out of you against your will. “I don’t think I’ll ever miss you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think victims usually miss their murderers.”

“Awfully dramatic for someone whose life I saved.”

“It doesn’t count when you also put it in danger.”

“Hmm, is that so.” He’s too close. You can feel his body heat radiating from him and you follow the urge to step away. On some level, you’re surprised he’s warm at all.

“I’m almost positive that’s the rule,” you say, avoiding his gaze as you chop up two cloves of garlic and then wonder if he can even eat it.

You ask and he just laughs.

“We can, love,” he says, “You’ll find most things in folklore don’t apply to us.”

Whatever that means. You’re not going to take the chance and ask. Klaus leans against your counter, following you with his eyes.

“You don’t seem scared of me.”

“I guess it’s just wearing off. Fourth time’s the charm.”

“You’re saying I lose my effect?”

You shrug. “There’s only so many times I can get the action movie villain routine before it’s a little old.”

“You would do well to be afraid of me,” he warns in a dangerously low voice, “I’m a beast, after all.”

You learn another fact about Klaus. He’s dramatic. 

“Beasts don’t get dinner so if you keep acting like one, I’ll put you outside.” He doesn’t say anything as you go to put the pasta in the now-boiling water. Your heart is beating irregularly. You wait for him to call your bluff. He doesn’t.

Klaus mostly ignores you as you cook in favor of poking around your kitchen. You almost ask what he’s doing before realizing you don’t care. Or, at least, don’t care enough to get your head bitten off for it. He makes a sound of triumph when he’s sorting through your pantry.

“And who, my dear, has been giving you this?” Klaus holds up a tin of tea.

“The… The store?”

“This is vervain.”

“Vervain… tea,” you say in bewilderment, “I’m assuming you’re a coffee person, then.”

He bares his teeth at you and you have a moment of realization where you remember taunting Klaus might be a bad idea. 

“Wait,” you say belatedly, “Does this have anything to do with your—” you make an unintelligible hand motion, “Situation?”

“My what situation?” He asks pleasantly.

“You know, the vampire thing.”

“Yes, this does have something to do with my, as you so eloquently put it, ‘vampire thing’,” he says, “Now would you like to answer the question before I show you some other ‘vampire things’?”

You shrug and turn back to your sauce. “I really don’t know what you want me to say. I like vervain tea in the evenings, it’s soothing.”

“So you buy this of your own volition?”

You cast him a sideways glance. “Yeah, pretty much. It’s cheaper than chamomile.”

You can tell that’s not the answer Klaus was expecting. You feel like as a vampire he should know that you can just buy it in a store. You’re not entirely sure of the significance of vervain to Klaus, but you suspect it’s not a good thing. He looks at you for longer than you feel comfortable with. You glance away.

“Pasta’s done,” you announce to the silent kitchen. You drain the noodles and turn off the burner. Klaus sits at your cramped breakfast bar. It feels odd to have a dinner guest, even ignoring his bloodthirsty tendencies.

“Here,” you say as you serve him.

He stabs one of the tomatoes with his fork. “You didn’t put any in here, did you?” He asks lightly, but you can tell he’s watching you. Your forehead creases.

“Any vervain?” You ask incredulously. He stares at you as you sit down and you can tell he’s not joking. “Why would I do that?” You ask.

Steam rises from your plate and you take a bite. Tomato juice bursts in your mouth.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” He muses, “Why?”

“You mean besides the fact that you shouldn’t poison your dinner guests?” You ask wryly, “And that tea doesn’t really go with this particular palette.” Klaus even grins at that.

“Besides that lovely concept, yes.”

You take another bite to stave off your answer, simply because you don’t have a good one. You’re sure that people better than you would have a good answer. Unfortunately, you’re just you. And you’ve never been the most eloquent. He stares at you the whole time, dark eyes encompassing you. You want to avert your gaze, but you fear he’ll think what you say next is a lie if you do.

“I’m not that kind of person,” you admit, “I’m not one for ‘an eye for an eye’.”

“So you’re a coward.”

You look at him, amusement on your lips. “If you’d like to think that, sure.”

You wonder what kind of life one has to lead to think that not taking revenge is cowardly.

Klaus stares at you for a moment like he doesn’t quite know what to make of you. (Strange, you think, for a vampire to think you’re the odd one). When he finally looks away, he begins to eat.

“This is rather good,” he comments.

You try not to roll your eyes. “It is my job,” you say, a mild exaggeration. He just laughs at that.

Klaus, as it turns out, is not a terrible dinner guest once he stops threatening you. The conversation starts to feel less like an obstacle course over a spike pit and more like a get together with an old friend. Disturbing, you’re aware.

“So does this mean you’ll stop maiming me?” You ask as you take your dishes to the sink.

Klaus hums. “What do you mean by that?”

You level a reproachful stare at him. “I mean,” you say, “You’re not allowed to invite yourself over for dinner and then rip a hole in my neck.”

“I don’t typically care for permission.”

You feel yourself bristling and know that it will get you nowhere. Your anger is not strong, not the bright rage that you see flare in the man beside you. Your anger slips away from you to empty air; a diffusion of emotion.

“It’s less about permission and more about manners,” you say instead.

“I see,” Klaus says, “I’ve been told I lack those.”

“Manners are learned.”

“In that case, I will make an effort. But,” he corners you against the counter, sharp edge biting into your lower back, “I should do well to tell you that I do believe in ‘an eye for an eye’.”

You can’t make yourself look in his eyes, not when the glittering darkness reminds you of the last time he cornered you.

“Something tells me you believe in a head for an eye,” you state, making direct eye contact with his shirt collar. He laughs at that and backs away. You breathe.

“As fun as this has been, I should be going,” he says.

“Things to do, people to kill?” You ask.

He grins, teeth sharp. “Something like that. See you soon.”

You turn around to respond, and he’s already gone.

How dramatic…

You make yourself a cup of vervain with honey and close up the house for the night. You put away leftovers and do dishes from dinner. The kitchen is almost sparkling when you’re done. You take another sip of tea. It soothes your throat. You wonder why Klaus keeps invading your life, how long it will take him to do it again.

You don’t feel the fear or disgust you expect.

You don’t know how to feel about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do me a favor and pretend it's monday for me. I get too impatient to update. Also it's snowing where I live right now so here's a soup recipe!
> 
> Egg Drop Soup (From Emma). Makes about 3 servings. You can obviously substitute any of this / add to it, this is just how I make it. I don't tend to use measurements, so feel free to adjust to your taste. 
> 
> 2.5 c. chicken stock  
> Fresh ginger (minced)  
> minced garlic  
> White Pepper  
> ~2 tsp sesame oil  
> ~1.5 tbsp soy sauce  
> Sriracha  
> White pepper  
> ~ 1 tsp rice vinegar  
> 1 tbsp cornstarch  
> 2 eggs
> 
> For the rice:  
> 1/2 c. jasmine rice  
> 1+ c. chicken stock
> 
> Cook rice in a little more than 1 c. chicken stock (the proper ratio for rice should always be 1:2 rice to water in my opinion). Boil water, add rice, and then simmer on LOW for exactly 19 minutes. Cannot go wrong. 
> 
> Heat chicken stock, seasonings, and sesame oil in small pot. Let simmer for 10-15 minutes, allowing the fresh ginger and garlic to infuse in the soup. Strain in a fine mesh strainer to remove minced garlic & ginger. Whisk cornstarch with half cup water in a separate cup and then pour into the pot. Boil until you see the soup become clearer (when you first pour it in, the soup will be slightly opaque). Whisk eggs to preference, stir into soup while boiling. Once cooked, take off heat and pour over rice.


	5. Madeleine

Work, as usual, drags.

“How are you doing?” Kate asks you as you’re knee deep in tiramisu.

“Oh, you know,” you say, “Same old.”

The only new thing in your life is Klaus, and you’re not quite sure how you would bring him up.

“You seem more tired than usual,” Kate comments, “And that’s saying something.”

You laugh. “I guess I’m still getting over the flu,” you lie, “I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

She clucks her tongue. “You should take better care of yourself. You’re too young to be running yourself ragged.”

“That’s not what everyone else seems to think,” you say as mildly as you can manage.

Kate rolls her eyes. “Take it from me, you don’t want to waste your youth doing nothing but work.”

You hum, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Someone sounds like they’re projecting.”

Kate laughs. “Maybe a little,” she says, “What time are you off?”

“Four, I’m out early.”

“Megan can take over if you want to leave now.”

Your forehead creases. “You sure?”

“Slow day,” she says with a smile, “You work too hard, take some time off.”

You need the money, but you breathe a sigh of relief and untie your apron.

“Kate, you’re the best.”

She winks. “I know, baby girl.”

You laugh and toss your apron in the bin before leaving. The sun hasn’t even set yet, not like it usually does by the time you get out of work. You drive home with the vague intention of baking something just for you. You get out all the ingredients and wine poured when you hear your door open. Someone calls your name.

For a moment, you think it’s a break-in. Then you remember yourself.

“Klaus,” you say evenly, as you wipe stray flour from your hands, “What are you doing on my doorstep?”

There’s someone else with him, a very grouchy looking man who looks a little younger than you. He looks at you haughtily and you avert your gaze.

“I needed a babysitter,” Klaus answers brightly, “Would you care to invite him in?”

You don’t think you really have a choice in the matter. You lean against your counter, wine glass held loosely in your hand.

“… Come in.”

Klaus steps inside and throws the man in your direction. “This is my littlest brother, Kol. Watch him for me, will you?”

You want to tell him that his little brother looks very capable of murdering you on the spot, but think better of it. Kol, apparently, doesn’t.

“A babysitter?” He spits, “Is everything a game to you?”

“Almost.”

“What’s to stop me from murdering her and leaving?”

You swallow, thick and loud in your throat.

“Nothing at all,” Klaus says smoothly, “From killing her, at least. I already had a spell placed on the house. You won’t be able to leave until midnight.”

Kol’s face screws up with rage and slams up against the doorway. The door is wide open, but he seems unable to go past the two inches of empty air.

“You’re a bastard,” Kol snarls.

“I’m aware,” Klaus says smoothly, “But I’m afraid I can’t have you committing a massacre and undermining me tonight. Consider yourself lucky I found a babysitter instead of a coffin.” He stops halfway through closing the door. “Oh,” he adds, looking to Kol, “I wouldn’t recommend drinking from her, she’s a fan of vervain.”

With that, he’s gone and he’s left you with his homicidal brother. You hope there aren’t any more of them, but you know damn well you’re not that lucky. Kol turns to glare at you. You look at him evenly, taking in the rage you see in his eyes. You’re well versed in managing people who hate you just for existing. (Not, you think, something you ever thought you would have to use again after moving out). It works in your favor tonight. You take a sip of your wine.

“Well,” you say, “How do you feel about madeleines?”

*

Kol, as it turns out, is mostly indifferent. He sits at your breakfast bar, idly watching you bake while drinking from a glass of wine. He’s already gone through a whole bottle and the remainder of your tequila. You should have asked Klaus for babysitting money.

You don’t think Kol would’ve reacted well to that.

“So what does my brother want with you?” Kol asks. You put the dough in the fridge to chill and set a timer.

“That’s a good question,” you pour yourself another glass of wine, “You would know better than me.”

“Has he fucked you yet?”

You choke on your drink. Kol is watching you through cold calculating eyes. You don’t appreciate his examination.

“No,” you manage to say, “And I don’t intend to.”

His lips curl like he doesn’t believe you. “Then what could he possibly want with a human like you?”

You don’t appreciate the disdain in his voice. You take another sip of your wine to wash down the irritation. Kol is still staring at you when you realize his question wasn’t rhetorical.

“He doesn’t want anything with me,” you say. You think it’s the truth, at least.

“Current circumstances would beg to differ. Why else would I be trapped in this little hovel you call a home?”

“Not very polite,” you say, “I like my house.”

Kol looks at you like he doesn’t even sort of believe you.

“And,” you tack on, “It’s likely that Klaus is trying to get you to kill me.”

“Hm,” Kol muses, “He knows me so well.” He drains his wine and sets his glass back on the counter. His eyes stare piercingly at you. “How did the two of you meet?”

“He murdered someone at my work. I was hiding in the pantry.”

“Ah,” Kol says, “A modern love story.” Your face twitches. Kol’s face brightens with savage amusement. “I see you don’t like my brother any more than I do.”

“Considering he ripped my throat out; no, I’m not the biggest fan.”

Kol’s eyes glitter with malice. He leans over the counter, too close for comfort. “You could kill him.” He sounds like he’s trying to trick you.

You balk. “No I couldn’t. I could never kill anyone.”

“Of course you could,” Kol asserts, “Everyone is capable of murder.”

You can’t control your expression that time. He looks into your eyes like he’s just stated an immutable truth.

“Is your whole family like this?”

Kol doesn’t even blink at the question.

“Pretty much.”

“Sounds like a fun household,” you say dryly. You don’t think you want to meet the rest of the Mikaelsons. One, even, was more than enough.

A grin slides across his lips at that. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Your timer goes off for the madeleines. You pull the batter out of the fridge and preheat the oven. This is not how you expected your evening off to go. Tension bleeds from the air around you.

You go to take out your madeleine pan and Kol is standing directly behind you.

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

“I’m not quite that old,” he says, smirk painted on his face.

Despite only having met two members so far, you decide you dislike this family. You’re sure you aren’t alone in that.

“There’s seventy percent chocolate in the cabinet,” you say, “Get a double boiler going?” You move around him and strangely, Kol lets you. Even stranger, he obeys you. Your kitchen is small, just large enough for you to scoop madeleine batter into your pans while Kol melts chocolate for you. The oven beeps and your kitchen grows increasingly warm. Much warmer than the late autumn outdoors. You put the madeleines in the oven and reset your timer. Kol continues to study you.

The hairs on your neck stand up. You smooth them down.

The madeleines don’t bake for long. You make Kol help you take them out of the pan. By the time the two of you are done, the chocolate is ready for dipping.

“Do you usually bake for stray vampires?”

“I was already planning on making these when you two showed up.”

“You’re saying I ruined your evening?” Kol mocks.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Kol has you by the throat faster than you can see, faster than you can blink. You close your eyes rapidly, trying to clear the spots in your vision.

“That’s not very polite,” he comments.

You tug at his wrist uselessly. You’d have better luck trying to move concrete. The blood stills around your brain. The hum of your heartbeat thumps inside your skull. You feel yourself growing dizzy.

“Were… you just… waiting for me to say… something wrong?” You wheeze.

Kol grins, teeth sharp. “Not particularly, but I never pass up an opportunity.” His grip tightens. You thrash wildly against him.

“Get… off of me,” you growl, “We haven’t… finished the madeleines.”

His grip loosens and you fall to your knees, clutching your throat.

“Did you just leverage baked goods for your life?” Kol asks incredulously.

“I don’t know,” you rasp, staring at the stray dirt trapped in your floorboards, “Did it work?”

Kol laughs, sudden and bright. You look up at him and he offers you his hand. You take it and he pulls you up so hard you fall against him on accident. The wool of his jacket presses into your cheek. You’re still dizzy, from the attempted asphyxiation or the wine, you’re not sure.

You’re stunned that your dumb comment from an oxygen-starved brain managed to stop Kol from killing you.

You’ve been close to death too many times in the past week for your taste.

You pull away and try to move towards the bathroom, but Kol grabs your wrists.

“Where are you going?” Kol asks, tilting his head.

“The mirror,” you manage to say, “I want to see how bad the bruise is.”

Kol rolls his eyes like you’re the ridiculous one.

“It’s barely visible,” he says, “Calm down.”

You fight the urge to snap at him, not wanting to ruin your small chance of living through the night.

“I’ll still have to cover it for work tomorrow.”

“If you live that long.” He pats your cheek like you’re a child and you realize you actually like Kol even less than his brother.

You don’t have any response for him, so you turn back to the madeleines.

You dawdle and try to make time to calm your nerves. It nearly works. The chocolate is still hot enough that it burns your fingers as you dip them. You lay them out on parchment paper to cool. You are, generally, a patient person. But this doesn’t extend to cooking. You take one, chocolate still dripping, and take a bite.

You hum. It’s better than you expected. Kol is still watching you.

“Want to try one?” You ask Kol. You’re about to offer him one when he takes a bite out of the one in your hands. Your nose scrunches. “Keep it,” you say and he just laughs.

“Do you even have a survival instinct?” He wonders. His voice is lighter than before.

“You know, Klaus asked me the same thing.”

“What conclusion did he come to?”

You hum noncommittally and take another bite. “You’d have to ask him.”

Kol’s face wrinkles in distaste. “That would require talking to my brother,” he says, moving back to the other side of the breakfast bar and taking a seat.

“Do the two of you not talk much?” You ask carefully.

“One could say that.”

He doesn’t say anything else. You pour both of you another glass of wine. Your throat aches as you swallow.

“So how does the whole vampire thing work?” You ask.

He looks at you, the edge of amused. He accepts the wine.

“It’s fairly simple: kill people, live forever.” He says dryly. He slouches in his seat, looking every bit the ruminating Dracula. You wonder if all vampires get lessons on gloom and melancholy. You suppose you’d need a larger sample size.

You sip from your glass. “Do you really live forever?”

“Why?” Kol asks dangerously, “Thinking about killing me?”

Drama definitely runs in the family.

“Not quite,” you say, taking a sip from your glass. You’re starting to feel the wine. “I was just wondering.”

“Then wonder something else,” Kol threatens, but it lacks the murderous rage from earlier. You’re glad. He drains his glass and you realize that’s the second wine bottle you’ve emptied tonight.

“How much do you have to drink to get drunk?” 

“More than you have in this dump. Would it kill you to get better wine?”

Ouch. “I just graduated and I’m working in the same job I had during college because no one wants to hire a Psych major,” you say, “Does it look like I can afford better wine?”

Kol blinks like he’s not used to thinking about something as mundane as money. Your bruise throbs and it occurs to you that this is the strangest conversation you’ve ever had.

Ah well.

“I suppose,” Kol says eventually. He’s quiet for a moment. “Vampires can die, regular vampires at least. All it takes is a wooden stake or ripping out their heart; fairly simple.”

“Regular vampires?”

A rolling smirk crosses his face. “Yes,” he says, “Regular.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“So you live forever, what else can you do?”

You plate up the chocolate-dipped madeleines and turn the oven off. The chocolate is matte to the touch.

“We’re faster than humans, stronger. We can compel humans to do our bidding.”

A memory sharpens in your subconscious.

“And vervain protects people from that?”

Kol looks at you accusingly. “How do you figure?” He looks like you better answer correctly.

“Klaus tried to,” you explain, “It didn’t take.”

The murderous expression fades from his face and he grins. He looks younger when he’s smiling. “I bet he didn’t like that.”

“No,” you say, thinking back to the several days you spent trapped in the fever-heat of your bedroom, “He didn’t.”

You touch your neck subconsciously and Kol’s gaze follows. He misinterprets the gesture.

“It’ll heal,” he says, and it’s more subdued than he was before. If you didn’t know better you would say he was apologetic. (You get the feeling he’s not used to it. You’re not sure how to take that).

You give him a quick smile. “I know.”

You hope that means he’s not going to kill you tonight. You wonder if Klaus would really force his brother inside your home just to let him kill you. Then you realize he absolutely would. A wave of something like disappointment falls over you. Strange, considering you don’t even really like Klaus.

You hear a knock before your front door bursts open.

“Oh,” Klaus says in surprise, “She’s still alive.”

Kol grins menacingly. “Shocking, I know.” He slides off the barstool he’s sitting in. “You’re back early.”

“The Salvatores aren’t as clever as they think they are.”

“No,” Kol says, “I didn’t think they were.”

Klaus turns to you. “Thank you for looking after my brother, I see all went well.” You see his eyes sweep across the bruise you know is painted across your throat. You force yourself to smile.

“Yes,” you say dryly, “He’s a great kid.”

Klaus even laughs at that. Kol doesn’t, but he also doesn’t kill you. You’ll take your wins where you can.

“I had the spell lifted, you’re free to go.”

Kol rolls his eyes at his brother before stepping out the door. He offers you a half-wave as he leaves.

“Thanks for the madeleines, dearest,” he says with a sharp grin. You wrinkle your nose.

“Any time,” you lie.

Within half a second he’s gone. You see he wasn’t lying about vampire speed. Your eyes turn to Klaus, still lingering on your doorstep.

“You know,” you say carefully, stepping closer to him, “It’s not very good manners to try to kill someone a third time.” You suppose if you were feeling gracious the first doesn’t really count, since he didn’t actually touch you. (You’re not feeling particularly giving at the moment).

“But the other times were alright?”

You let yourself roll your eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“I suspected Kol wouldn’t kill you.”

You touch the bruise on your neck. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

He steps inside your house and takes you carefully by the shoulder. You can feel the heat radiating from his palm. You’re still surprised by how warm he is— that he’s warm at all— but you suppose you don’t know that much about vampires to begin with.

“I can heal this, if you like.”

His thumb traces over the sensitive skin of your windpipe. Your mind flashes back to him forcing blood down your throat; the exhilaration you felt the morning after.

“Would it be like before?” You ask.

“Yes.”

Slowly, you push his hand away. “Then no thank you. I’d rather deal with the sore throat.”

He shrugs and takes his hand away.

“Whatever you say.”

He offers you a grin and then leaves the way he came.

You spend the rest of your evening eating your pastries and box mac and cheese. You have less madeleines than you thought. Kol, you suspect, is the culprit. You check your neck through the evening. By the time you go to bed, the bruise has darkened to a fiery, mottled purple: the color of crushed blackberries.

Well, you think, at least you lived.

This time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter & Kol's introduction :-) You'll have another brother to look forward to next week. (Also, who are y'alls favorite Originals? Elijah was always my fav when I first watched the show but Klaus gets funnier the more I watch it).


	6. Soufflé

You trip over wine bottles when you leave to go for work. They go scattering into the yard, but somehow none of them break.

You blink in surprise.

By the time you’ve gathered the half dozen bottles up, you’re already late for work. You don’t have time to examine the labels. (Still, though, you can tell these are much more expensive than you can afford. Suspicious). You have no idea how those got there, or who could’ve given them to you.

Well, you correct yourself, you have some idea.

It seems out of character for Kol, from what little you know of him. You think maybe there’s more there than meets the eye. It’s… almost kind. You didn’t know he had it in him.

(You recall a tidbit from your intro to Psychology course; abusers, you are well aware, give gifts to their victims). You swipe the thought out of your mind. One violent interaction does not an abuser make.

But it sets a precedent.

Part of you ponders how fair it even is to judge a vampire based on human morality. How much difference exists between the two species? Are vampires genetically violent, or is it something that comes with time, a factor unique only to the ones you’ve met so far?

You’re inclined to believe the latter. No one is born evil.

You realize belatedly you’re still driving when you nearly pass the restaurant. You make a sharp turn and speed into your parking space, tires screeching. The door slams behind you.

“Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you,” a man’s voice says, “But I was wondering if you knew where—”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you interrupt, “But I’m actually running late for—” You look up and immediately break off. “Fuck,” you say, “It’s you.”

“Wow,’Sir’,” the murdered man grins, “That’s a new one. How polite.”

The first and last time you saw this man was when you stepped over his dead body after Klaus killed him. Horrified, you wonder how he survived. Then you remember.

You need to get used to the supernatural if Klaus is going to make a habit of fucking up your life. And he probably is considering he’s managed to infiltrate your life like a mold spore. You wonder if there’s a way out of this. If half of what Kol told you is true, you don’t stand a chance.

You’re tired of being scared.

“You know,” the vampire says, stepping towards you, “I heard you hiding in the kitchen before my neck got snapped, but the hell didn’t he find you?”

You take a step back and almost hit the metal of your car door. “Luck,” you lie, “I guess.” He hums.

“Interesting,” he says, “Because a little birdie told me he sent his baby brother to your house for protection last night.”

Your brow furrows. “Why the hell would Klaus do that?”

The vampire grins and you realize your mistake.

“So you do know who he is?”

You stay silent.

“Who the hell are you?” He wonders aloud, “He wouldn’t send his family to just anyone, not when there’s a white oak stake floating around.” You don’t know what any of that means. You shift.

“I’m no one.”

“Are you really?”

He shifts like he’s going to pin you against your car when something slams him off his feet.

“It’s not very polite to attack a lady,” another man says calmly. You can only see his profile, but he almost looks familiar.

“Elijah,” the man growls, bracing himself against the hard concrete of the parking lot.

“Damon,” Elijah says politely.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Quite,” he says, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I have business with this young woman elsewhere.” You stiffen.

“Don’t you mean your brother has business with her?” Damon mocks, pushing himself off the ground.

Oh. You see the family resemblance now, though you think he looks more similar to Kol than Klaus. You relax and then wonder about the implication of feeling safe in the presence of another one of Klaus Mikaelson’s homicidal brothers. Not good, you guess. You’re supposed to be better than this.

“One could say,” Elijah says pleasantly.

Damon snarls.

“I don’t think so.”

He races towards you with a murderous expression on his face. You hear a sharp crack and faster than you can blink, he’s laying on the ground. A shrill noise escapes your throat before you can stop it and you clamp your hands over your mouth.

He’s not dead, you remind yourself. At least you don’t think so. You look in horror at the sharp, broken angle of Damon’s neck. Bile rises in your throat and you have to look away.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Elijah apologizes. His sharp gaze sweeps the mostly empty parking lot, “We should go before others arrive.”

“Um,” you protest, “Not going to happen. I can’t afford to miss work.”

He levies a significant look to the corpse cooling on the concrete and looks back at you. Your cheeks rise to a mottled red.

“I think they’ll understand this once,” he says dryly, “I doubt a dead body will be bringing in customers. We should leave before the police get here.”

You stand your ground, keys clenched in your hand until you make the mistake of looking back at the body. “Fuck,” you grind out.

You feel like gagging.

“Fine,” you snap, “Get in the car.”

Elijah obeys, much to your surprise. He slides in your passenger side, calm and collected.

You start the car and peel out of the parking lot before anyone realizes you were there.

“So,” you say when you get to the main road, “Are there any other members of your family I need to meet or is this it?”

He gives a half smile. “Just one more,” he says, “Our sister, Rebekah.”

You remain tense. “Well,” you say cryptically, “At least it’s not another brother.” He laughs at that, a low and rolling sound.

“Completely understandable. My brothers are… difficult to deal with.”

You snort.

“Yeah,” you say, “I’ve noticed.”

He smiles, hands folded.

Elijah so far is definitely your favorite, if just because he hasn’t tried to kill you yet. (A winner by default).

You’re not counting Damon against him.

“What’s going to happen to the body?” You ask.

Elijah pauses. “He’ll be up within the hour, most likely.”

“… So I am not going to be arrested for murder?”

“I may have exaggerated to get you in the car,” Elijah admits. 

You whip your head to the side to glare at him. You change your mind about Elijah being your favorite.

“Are you serious?” You demand, “I’m missing my shift for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” he corrects, “Damon will kill you if your paths cross again, make no mistake of that.”

You don’t know what the hell you ever did to Damon to make the vampire want to kill you so badly.

The trip back to your house doesn’t take long. You lean your head against the car seat and sigh. Your boss is going to be pissed at you.

Fuck. Groaning, you get out of the car.

“Well,” you say, “Here we are.”

Elijah, you realize, with his fancy suit and crisp shirt collar looks very out of place in your neighborhood. You suspect the dissonance will only get worse inside your house. You unlock your door and go inside when you realize Elijah is still stuck at the doorway. You flush.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, “I forgot. Come on in.”

He bows his head briefly and steps inside. He glances down at the collection of wine bottles accrued at your doorstep. Heat rises in your face.

“Those were a gift from one of your brothers,” you explain, “I think.”

His eyebrows lift in a facsimile of surprise.

“I see Klaus is trying to get into your good graces.”

You bypass that odd statement. “Actually,” you say, “I think it was Kol.”

He blinks.

“That is,” Elijah says, “Quite unlike him.”

“Yeah,” you say dryly, “I got that impression.”

Elijah’s eyes drift down to your poorly concealed strangulation mark. All the color-correcting concealer and foundation in the world can’t hide it completely.

“I’m guessing that’s his handiwork.”

Your nose wrinkles. “Unfortunately.”

He wanders closer to you and reaches out like he’s going to trace over the mark before thinking better of it.

“Did Niklaus not heal this for you?” Elijah murmurs.

You push his hand away. This family really likes to invade your personal space, you note with some level of irritated amusement. “He offered,” you say, “I’m not a huge fan of the way blood tastes.”

His lips quirk up, but mostly he just looks concerned. It’s so incongruent with the way the rest of his family acts that you can’t help but feel the urge to pull away. Your shoulders draw back.

“Would you like some tea or anything?” You ask.

He smiles politely and withdraws.

“That would be perfect, thank you.”

You smile nervously before filling up your kettle. Elijah stands with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes gazing over your messy house. You flush as you’re suddenly painfully aware of your bare white walls you’re not allowed to paint and hand-me-down furniture. Your living quarters don’t hold up to his examination. (You should probably be more concerned with another murderer being in your home, you tell yourself, than class differences).

“You can sit, if you like,” you offer, gesturing towards your breakfast bar.

“Thank you,” he says, sliding into a seat, “You have a lovely home.”

You snort. “Sure,” you say, “Whatever you say.” He makes no argument but continues to look around your home like he’s peeling back the sides of your skull to look at your brain. It’s unsettling.

“So,” you say, “Why were you waiting outside my work this morning?”

“You make it sound so sordid,” he says, amused,“I was following Damon Salvatore, who happened to be there.”

You flush. “Oh,” you say. You get out two mugs, taking the opportunity to look away. “Why does he want to kill me so badly?”

“I’m afraid you’re just caught in the middle,” Elijah says, “The Salvatores have been causing us trouble lately.” You’ve heard that name before.

“Who are they?”

“Two brothers with a grudge against my family.”

“But what would they want with me?” Your car is from 2004 and makes strange noises when it rains. High-profile target, you are not.

“Niklaus is less subtle than he thinks,” he says, “The Salvatores got wind of him coming to visit you three times in a week. They are an unfortunately curious bunch.”

Of course.

“If Klaus gets me killed I’m going to murder him.”

Elijah, to your surprise, laughs. The low sound warms you.

“My brother does inspire that feeling in people.”

“Kol doesn’t seem like he likes him that much,” you say and you’re not sure why.

“They have a… tumultuous relationship.”

You can see that. You wonder if Kol only left you alive to piss off Klaus last night. Or if by not killing you, you actually played into Klaus’s hands. Your head hurts trying to untangle the threads of this family’s dynamic.

The teakettle whistles and you pour out two cups. You wonder if it would be impolite to make vervain tea for yourself and decide against it. You don’t want to accidentally offend Elijah. Especially on the off chance he has violent episodes like his brothers. You take out plain black tea and put a teabag in each cup.

“Do you want any sugar or anything?”

“No,” he says, “That’s quite alright.”

You shrug and add honey and milk to yours. Steam rises and warms your cold cheeks.

“Here.” You slide his tea towards him. He accepts it with a nod of thanks.

“So,” you ask, “What other ‘business’ did you have with me?”

He hums. “Mostly making sure you stay alive.” You blink.

“Not that I’m not grateful,” you say carefully, “But why exactly do you care?”

“Klaus specifically requested it.”

You pause. That makes… even less sense.

“Did he give a reason?”

Elijah leans back in his chair, warm lighting glancing off his jawline. Even in your cramped mess you call a home, you can tell he’s beautiful. You look away and tamp down that line of thinking.

“The reason he gave is that he doesn’t want the Salvatores to think they can touch what’s his,” Elijah says carefully. 

You wrinkle your nose. You don’t like the idea of belonging to Klaus.

“And what’s the actual reason?”

Elijah’s eyes bore into yours briefly before looking away.

“I wouldn’t presume to know my brother’s every thought,” he says, “However, I believe his motivation lays more in guilt than possessiveness.”

You blink. “He’s tried to kill me.”

Elijah smiles wryly.

“It’s little consolation, but if my brother truly wanted you dead you would be,” he says, “There’s scarcely a person alive who hasn’t been on the other side of Klaus’s wrath.”

This does not sound like what you would call a ‘healthy family dynamic’.

“Including you?” You ask.

He nods solemnly. “Including me,” he says.

A wave of sympathy for Klaus’s family washes over you. You dislike the feeling.

“Oh.” You don’t know what else to say. Thankfully, Elijah saves you from having to respond.

“Klaus will be stopping by later,” he says, “I notified him about the Damon situation. He doesn’t want you to be without protection for the foreseeable future.”

You lean against the counter, arms curled protectively around your mug. You realize with a sharp sort of abruptness that your life has changed more drastically in the past week than it has ever before.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

“I see.”

You wonder what Klaus’s version of protection is.

You glance at the clock, “Do you have any idea when he’s going to get here?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” he answers, “Could be minutes, could be hours.”

You blink. “Well, that’s not ideal,” you say, “You don’t have to wait here for him, I’ll be fine alone.”

His eyebrow quirks up. “Trying to get rid of me so soon?” You flush.

“That’s not it,” you stammer, “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to stay here.”

“I’m having a perfectly lovely time already,” he says, taking a sip of his tea, “I’m in no rush.”

That doesn’t make you feel much better. You resort to your number one coping mechanism. “Well since you’re here and I’m forced to take a day off, how does chocolate soufflé sound?”

Elijah, it turns out, is very agreeable to it. Unlike Kol, he ends up helping you in the kitchen once he finishes his tea. He takes off his suit jacket so he’s just in his white cotton dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You have to physically turn yourself away from staring at his strong forearms as he whisks egg yolks and sugar for you.

Elijah, you admit to yourself, is ridiculously beautiful. You stop yourself from looking. You know that can’t go anywhere good. (Repeating past mistakes, you hear, is the definition of insanity).

You melt chocolate over a double boiler for the crème pat and get out a heavy-based pan. Your stove clicks for so long you think it’s broken. It finally lights.

“You’re pretty good in the kitchen,” you comment as you pour milk and cocoa powder into the pot.

“After a thousand years, one is proficient in almost everything.”

You blink. “Are you really all a thousand years old?”

“Give or take about a decade, yes.”

“What’s that like?”

Elijah stops whisking and sets the bowl aside. He leans on the counter, hands gripping the faux-granite. “Years sometimes pass as minutes,” he muses, “But mostly it’s just long. Tiring.”

He sounds weary. You have the uncomfortable urge to reach out and comfort him.

You shift uncertainly. “There have to be good parts too, right?”

“Of course. Meeting people across centuries, seeing humanity develop from villages to cities. The creation of new technologies and literature. The evolution of art.”

“That sounds nice,” you say wistfully.

He turns to look at you, half amused.

“You may have to get over your aversion to blood to become a vampire.”

“Oh, God no. I’m not talking about that,” you dismiss, “I just like the idea of living through history.”

“It’s less entertaining than you might expect.”

The cocoa milk starts to boil and you turn off the heat.

“Temper the eggs for me?” You ask, handing Elijah a small bowl. He accepts and you put it back on the stove once he’s done. He does a good job.

“So,” you continue, repressed curiosity intensifying at meeting a vampire who actually answers your questions, “What’s your favorite time period, then?”

He pauses to think. “Hm,” he says, “It’s difficult to choose. After a while, it all starts to blend together.” He takes a moment to think and you take the opportunity to hand him the egg whites. You’re curious if he’ll get tired. Obediently, he takes the mixing bowl and a new whisk. “I was fond of pre-revolution France,” Elijah finally says, “It was particularly hedonistic.”

You snort. “I bet, if half of what we learned in my French history class is true.”

“Parlez-vous français?”

“Seulement un peu,” you say apologetically but Elijah looks pleased.

“It’s a beautiful language,” he comments.

You hum. “I regret not keeping up with it.”

He flashes you a quick smile.

“I’ll help you practice.”

You flush at the implication of seeing him again. You need to pull yourself together. (It’s a good thing you didn't meet Elijah first, you tell yourself, or else you would be far more likely to let the Mikaelsons get away with whatever they want). As it is, a part of you still likes his brothers despite their violent tendencies.

Hm, maybe you’re lonelier than you thought you were.

Averting your gaze, you glance at the egg whites. He’s still furiously whisking as you add a fourth cup of sugar. Your arms would’ve given up by now.

“I wouldn’t mind having you back if you want to be my sous-chef,” you comment.

He hums. “I haven’t actually baked in years. My talents usually lie outside the kitchen.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be super important if you just need blood,” you muse. Then you realize you don’t actually know much about real-life vampires. “Wait, do you have to eat regular food too?”

Elijah laughs. “No, we don’t have to, but most of us enjoy it.”

“So no Twilight-esque regurgitation?”

“No, thankfully. I’m sure that would’ve made the centuries more difficult.”

“More like unbearable,” you say, “I don’t think I could stand it.”

You whisk the melted chocolate into the crème pat and take it off heat. You watch as Elijah vigorously whisks the egg whites into firm, glossy peaks. You brush him aside once you deem them finished and start folding in the crème pat.

“Get the soufflé pan ready for me?” You ask. You direct him towards some softened butter you left out on the counter and your sugar canister. He coats the inside in butter and rolls it in sugar exactly the way you would’ve done.

“How did you learn to cook?” You ask as you spoon the mixture into the mold.

Elijah leans against your kitchen counter. “A myriad people and places. I lived on my own for a few years when I was human and I was forced to learn. There was a learning curve, there.” You pause. You don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to you that Klaus and his family used to be human. You want to ask but suspect you won’t get any answers if you do. Even if Elijah is very open for someone you just met. “How did you learn?” He counters. 

You shake off the realization and shrug. “My mom cooked a lot, I started baking when I was twelve and never stopped.” It was the only favor your mom ever did for you. You put the soufflé mold in the preheated oven and set the timer on the side of your fridge. Elijah’s eyes never leave you.

“You’re quite good for someone your age,” he comments. 

You look at him derisively.

“You’ve never even tried my baking.”

“That’s not quite true.”

You pause. “What does that mean?”

“My brother and I frequent your restaurant often enough. I’m fond of the dessert menu.”

“I’m not the only one who makes the desserts,” you correct, “Plus the cakes come from box mixes.”

Elijah just laughs at that. He washes his hands and unrolls his sleeves back to his wrists. You mourn the loss. Maybe you need to go outside and touch some grass. Your grip on reality is slipping.

You wash up and start putting your dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Elijah helps. Your kitchen is barely big enough to accommodate him. Ah, you think, this is why you don’t have people over often. The door bursts open when you’re in the middle of scrubbing dried egg whites off of your whisk.

“Ah,” Klaus comments, “How domestic.” His eyes slide by the collection of too-expensive alcohol collected on your doorstep.

“Good of you to join us, brother,” Elijah greets.

You think ‘brother’ is a weird way to refer to your sibling, but then again you’re an only child. Maybe it’s a vampire thing. You should start a journal to catalogue all of the differences. You don’t think you could get that peer reviewed.

“I couldn’t let you hog all of our dear baker’s attention.” Klaus’s eyes slide to you and you look away. You still don’t know how to feel about him, but your manners win out.

“Hi Klaus,” you greet, “Soufflé is in the oven if you want any.”

“That’s alright,” he dismisses, “We have important matters at hand.”

*

Klaus, despite his original protests, does have a slice of soufflé. He scoops bites out of it as he talks, sprawled in one of your arm chairs. You only have two in the living room after your roommate bailed and took all of her furniture, so you drag out one of the barstools for you to sit in.

“The Salvatores unfortunately have a powerful witch on their side, which makes this a little complicated,” Klaus starts.

“Wait,” you blurt out, “Witches exist too?”

Klaus rolls his eyes.

“Yes, they exist,” he says impatiently. You want to ask what else is real, but you don’t think Klaus would appreciate any further interruptions. “As I was saying, the fact that they have a witch would be incidental if she wasn’t a Bennett. Since she is, this has to be handled a little more delicately.”

You literally have no idea what he’s saying. You may not be qualified enough to write a journal about them.

“So?”

“So,” Elijah cuts in, “You won’t be able to leave the house until we can… convince them to leave you alone.”

“Absolutely not,” you protest, “I can’t miss work, they will fire me.”

Klaus’s eyes narrow in frustration. “I don’t think you’re grasping the gravity of this situation, love. The Salvatores aren’t as nice as me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you shoot back. Klaus’s expression sparks an echo in you; a fear response you overcome out of sheer determination.

Klaus opens his mouth in a snarl, but Elijah beats him to it.

“We can compel your manager, no one will even know you’re gone,” Elijah bargains.

“That’s nice and all,” you say, “But unless you can compel my rent and grocery bill, then I still have to go to work.”

Klaus looks like he wants to argue more, but once again Elijah interrupts him before he can.

“Done,” he says.

You blink.

“What?” You ask, glancing startled at both of them.

“It may surprise you to note,” he says dryly, “Money means little when you’ve lived this long.”

That sounds like something only someone with an extraordinary amount of money would say.

“I have never met someone who’s wanted to die as much as you,” Klaus comments.

Your nose wrinkles. “Trust me— I don’t want to be murdered either, but I also don’t want to be homeless.”

Klaus looks very much like he would like to take you by your shoulders and shake some sense into you. You ignore him and slide off the barstool to get more soufflé.

“Elijah, would you like any more?”

“That’s quite alright,” he says. He gives you his plate when you reach out for it. You leave Klaus’s where it is. Your chocolate soufflé has deflated into something more resembling a pancake, but it’s still good. Klaus and Elijah are conversing quietly when you return and Klaus immediately turns his attention back to you.

“I’m having a location spell put over your home,” he says, “Vampires cannot enter unless you invite them, but the spell will keep you safe from their witchy and human allies alike. As long as you do not leave your house, no one will be able to find it.”

You blink. “Does this mean I can’t even go onto my porch?”

Klaus almost looks apologetic.

“I’m afraid so.”

You kiss your teeth. “Well,” you say begrudgingly, “I guess if I have to.”

“It shouldn’t be too long,” he says with a sharp grin, “Think of it as a long vacation.”

You suppose it could be worse.

“Fine,” you say, and then because you remember you should be nice to someone trying to save your life, “Thank you.” He’s not even the one trying to kill you this time.

“You’re very welcome,” Klaus says mildly.

Elijah rises from where’s he’s sitting and adjusts his cuffs.

“If you put together a list of supplies you’ll need, I can have them picked up for you,” he says. You smile, genuinely this time. (You can’t stop yourself).

“Thank you, Elijah.” You think he even smiles back at you.

“Please forgive me for leaving early,” he apologizes, “I should consult with the witches.”

“Come back soon.”

“I will,” he promises. You like the idea of seeing him again, you realize grudgingly. You’re a bit too starved for human interaction. (Well, vampire interaction counts, you think). You realize Klaus is looking at you, quite amused.

“I see you like my brother,” he says, leaning back in your arm chair.

“As much as I can like any vampire.”

“He is the best of us,” Klaus muses, “Or so he likes to pretend.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t you have better things to do than try to ruin my opinion of the one member of your family I somewhat like?”

“You mean you don’t like me?” Klaus mocks, “I thought we had something special.”

You give him a look, but then the pretense fades. You’ve left in a wave of uncertainty that you know will crash on a jagged cliff.

“Klaus,” you ask quietly, “What are you doing this for?”

You know better than to overestimate your own importance, you know who you are beyond all fraction of a truth.

(Self-knowledge, you’ve heard, is sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse).

You meant it when Damon had asked. You are a no one.

His icy blue eyes meet yours.

“Call it a whim,” he says and that clears up absolutely nothing. He must see something in your face (not disappointment, you convince yourself), because he continues. “When you’ve gotten to my age,” he confides, “Whims are one of the few things left. An eternity is a long time to not indulge yourself.”

“What happens when you change your mind?” You ask, “And you decide it’s no great loss to let the Salvatores kill me?”

Klaus looks at you with an uninterpretable expression.

“Alright,” he says, “You have my word that I will make sure you do not come to harm for as long as you need, disbarring the event of you actively or passively trying to harm my family.”

You balk. “I would never.”

Klaus tilts his head, examining you.

“It’s always surprising to me how much you mean that,” he murmurs.

“Well,” you say, “Not all of us are serial killers.”

Klaus just chuckles at that and backs away from you.

“I’ll return soon,” he promises. He pulls the Klaus Special of vanishing before you can blink, a slight breeze lingering in your living room.

Well, you think, you have house arrest to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... Okay I have no excuse for this one. I got really impatient this time. I went through an 8-month phase in high school where I made nothing but chocolate soufflé, I just made one for the first time in 4 years and it is literally the best it has ever turned out. (The recipe I use is Mary Berry's Hot Chocolate Souffle, highly recommend).
> 
> Also on a scale of 1-10 how obvious is it that I've worked in a string of bakeries since I was 15


	7. Strudel

Day one of house arrest starts well. It’s rare anymore than you get to sleep in as late as you want, so you take the opportunity to laze in bed. The sun is almost blinding, streaming through your curtains before you get up. You take the time to cook yourself breakfast: cubed sweet potatoes and onion baked in the oven, bacon, and a poached egg on top. The flavor bursts on your tastebuds and you close your eyes in the bright sunlight. Steam rises from your tea.

You’ve only been awake an hour, eating your breakfast in your pajamas in your kitchen, when you realize this is the best day you’ve had in a long time.

That says more about your life than it does about your cooking.

You spend the rest of the morning cleaning your house top to bottom. Your roommate’s old room still sits empty, you don’t know what to do with it. Even if you did, you don’t have the furniture to fill it. She at least cleaned it before she left, you note with some level of grudging satisfaction.

You tie your hair up and cover it while you dust and clean the baseboards. You’re on your knees, scrubbing dirt out of the creases of your linoleum, when there’s a knock at your door. You look up. Belatedly, you remember Elijah’s promise to come by for the grocery list you have stuck to your fridge.

You open the door with a greeting on your lips. Kol’s eyes sweep over your dirt stained clothes.

“I see you weren’t expecting guests,” he says dryly. You tense.

“And I wasn’t expecting you,” you say as evenly as you can manage, “You’re not here to strangle me again, are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I came to apologize?”

“No.”

Kol’s face cracks into a devilish grin. “You’re smarter than you look,” he comments and you nearly want to slap him, “Your madeleines won me over.”

“Only good vampires are allowed to come in.”

“You let in my brother,” Kol says, “Nik is far worse than I am.”

“Hm,” you say, “You may have a point there.”You don’t really want to let him in, but you can tell he’s not going to leave. You move out of the doorway. “Come on in.”

He steps inside and looks at your cleaning supplies scattered around.

“Has the isolation affected you already?”

You roll your eyes. “I needed to clean anyway, I just didn’t have the time.” You drop your rag on the kitchen counter and wash your hands. “Not that I’m not happy to see you,” you add, “But why are you really here?”

“Klaus wants us to watch you,” he says idly, wandering around your house, “I picked the short straw.”

Your brow furrows. Klaus hadn’t mentioned anything like that. You find it unnecessary, but you don’t intend to argue with a temperamental vampire.

“Did you try the wine I left you yet?” He continues.

“Oh! So it was you?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Do you have any other secret admirers I should know about?” You snort.

“You are not an admirer.”

“Smart girl,” he comments, smiling wickedly.

“And no,” you say, “I haven’t cracked into them yet.”

“Well,” he says, “The day is still young.”

“It’s noon,” you protest.

Kol shrugs.

*

Kol ends up getting you day drunk within the hour, a feat that would be less embarrassing if you hadn’t spent the first twenty minutes nursing a single glass of wine. You didn’t intend to get drunk, only intending to drink enough to calm your nerves. You have more nerves than you thought.

“What the hell is in this?” You ask him. You try to read the label, but the words swim just out of reach.

“It’s stronger than the usual fare,” he says, amused, “Which probably accounts for how pissed you are right now.”

You frown at him. “I’m not mad, why would I be mad?” You try to glare at him, but you get too dizzy and have to sit down.

“Not angry, you stupid American,” Kol says, rolling his eyes, “I’m calling you incoherently drunk.” His tone is much milder than it was last time he was here. Like he’s made the conscious decision to be nice.

Yeah, you don’t quite believe that.

“Oh.” You blink and feel somewhat dumb. “How aren’t you drunk yet?”

He spreads his arms form his position in your arm chair, grinning wickedly. “Vampire, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” you say and you collapse in the chair across from him. Somehow you don’t spill your glass. “I keep forgetting that vampires are real.” You sink into the cushions, becoming one with your arm chair. You don’t think you’ll be able to get up.

“I’m not familiar with the feeling.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Well of course you’re not, you’ve been one for like, a thousand years or whatever.” You get the distinct feeling he’s laughing at you, but you can’t really tell.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I met Elijah.”

“Ah,” Kol says, “The golden child.”

You frown. “What do you and Klaus have against him? He seemed nice.” More than nice, you want to say.

“Yes, that’s the problem,” Kol says impatiently, “Vampires aren’t ‘nice’. He insists on this gentleman persona. It’s grating.”

“Sounds to me like you’re jealous,” you say and almost immediately regret it.

Kol bares his teeth in a smile that comes off more threatening than joyful. The ever present tension you feel in the presence of a Mikaelson tightens. The alcohol doesn’t help. “And why would I be jealous of the second most boring member of my family?” You wonder who the most boring is.

“I don’t know,” you say, “You tell me.”

Kol looks like he might combust. Or kill you. Even drunk you can tell you’re walking a tightrope. You change the subject.

“Do you like being a vampire?” You ask.

His face flickers and you think you catch a glimpse of some sad, tired side of him. It startles you. “Sometimes. It’s strange. Powerful.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s not all that bad,” Kol argues, “Being a vampire has its perks.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

You nod and your neck feels weaker than usual. Your head rolls in a circle. You rest it on the back of the chair. “I’m sure it does,” you agree amiably, “But so does being a human.”

“What on Earth is better about being a human than a vampire?” Kol questions in disbelief. He gets up from his chair to the rapidly dwindling wine collection. You tense when he passes by you, but he doesn’t even spare you a cursory glance.

You shrug. “I don’t know,” you say, “What do you like most about being a vampire?”

“Have you ever done any recreational drugs?” Kol asks casually, settling back in his chair with another full bottle of wine.

You blink at the non-sequitur. You think you would have a hard time keeping up with this conversation even if you weren’t plastered.

“… Not really.”

“Hm,” he says, “Not surprising now that I think about it.”

You don’t know if you should take that as an insult or not.

“What does this have to do with being a vampire?”

“I never experimented with drugs while I was human, not a lot of opportunity to in viking-era North America, so I don’t know exactly what that feels like to a human,” Kol continues, bypassing your query and only managing to inspire more questions, “But drinking blood gives more euphoria than all of them put together.”

“Oh.”

You can’t tell whether it’s Kol’s monologue or the wine that makes your stomach queasy. Kol must notice the expression change on your face.

“I won’t drink from you,” he reassures with some level of amusement, “Vervain is poison to vampires.” The spool of tension in your gut starts to unwind and something else clicks in your head.

“Does it burn?” You ask.

He pauses, confused. “Yes…” He answers and then his face brightens into a gleeful grin, “Please tell me my dearest brother drank from you.”

“… Yes, it hurt.” You can still feel the phantom pain underneath your still fading bruise.

“What I wouldn’t give to have seen Nik’s face,” he says, delighted.

“I think I’m good,” you say dryly, “Not something I want to relive.”

“You’re lucky you’re still alive after that,” he says, “Nik has killed for far less.”

“Are all vampires this violent?”

He shrugs. “The ones that survive tend to be.” Ah, so not genetic.

“Then I’m counting that as an advantage for being human,” You say resolutely. Violence begets violence, or however that quote goes.

“Violence is not unique to vampires, dearest,” Kol drawls, “Humans are some of the most vicious of the lot.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m not saying that,” you say, “But not all humans are violent.”

“But all have the potential,” he counters and you just look at him in disbelief. The wine has made you more open than you usually are and you can’t control the expression of sheer skepticism that lingers on your face.

(Dangerous, you tell yourself, to be so open).

His lips curl. “I can see you don’t believe me,” he adds.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

He bares his teeth. “Careful, dear.”

You look at him with a fixed blankness. “You would’ve killed me earlier if you were going to.” You speak with a bravery you don’t feel. His head tilts and his eye care locked on yours. He pushes himself out of your chair in one smooth motion and slinks towards you.

“And how would you know?” Kol questions. He’s invading your space, bent down so close that you’re almost touching. His eyes are so dark you feel like you’re drowning in oil. You shift as an unidentifiable feeling rises in your core. “I could be biding my time for the perfect moment where you feel safe before I rip open your sternum and tear your heart out.”

You swallow.

“Does drama just run in your family?” You ask but your voice shakes. He laughs but doesn’t back away.

“Some would say,” he murmurs. He looks hungry, but you don’t know what for. His eyes trail downwards and linger on the fading bruise he put around your neck. You don’t think you would know how to handle this sober, so drunk-you decides to push him away. Surprisingly, he lets you. You drain your glass before standing up.

“I’m hungry, I’m making lunch.”

Kol saunters back to his arm chair and pours himself another glass. You take the opportunity to busy yourself and hide in the kitchen. Or at least hide to the extent you can in a fairly-open floor plan. Gripping the edge of the counter, you breathe, exiting you all at once in one shaky exhale. Your head swims. You shouldn’t have drank so much. Getting nearly-drunk with a vampire is not the best move you could’ve made.

Too late now.

You take out what’s left of your produce and start a salad. There’s still some leftover lemon vinaigrette in the fridge, you get it out and put it on the counter. Kol wanders back in with a second wine glass in his hand. You look at it skeptically as he holds it out to you.

“Kol,” you say, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk.”

He grins. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“You understand why that sounds threatening, right?” You ask dryly, but you mean it.

“Last glass! I promise,” he says, “For you at least.” You have a feeling Kol is going to empty the rest of the bottles himself. Begrudgingly, you take a sip from the proffered glass. It doesn’t make you feel any worse, to your surprise. It actually seems to make your headache disappear.

“Is this a different bottle?” You ask.

He pauses.

“Yes,” he says, “It’s not as strong. I don’t want you passing out.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not that bad off, don’t be ridiculous.” You drain the rest of the glass and suddenly feel better than you had for the past hour. You twirl the stem absent-minded. “I like this one a lot,” you say.

A smile tugs at Kol’s lips. “I’ll be sure to get you more of it.”

You turn to frown at him.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because those look more expensive than anything I can afford.”

Kol rolls his eyes. “Consider it prepayment for me drinking you out of house and home.”

You’re not going to win this argument. “… Fine.”

You take down a cutting board and a knife and start slicing a cucumber. Kol watches you as you put together a salad. You’d offer him one if you thought he would accept.

“You’re not vegetarian, are you?” He asks.

Broad amusement seeps into you at the disgust in his voice.

“No,” you say, amused, “Not quite. Still don’t really like the idea of vampirism.”

“You will.”

You don’t like the sound of that. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck start to prick up again.

“Scoot,” you say.

“Pushy.” Kol gets out of your way and you sit at the breakfast bar. Your eyes try to blink closed. You have a very strong feeling you are going to spend your afternoon napping. There are worse things to do, you suppose. Kol inspects your house as you eat your salad. He dips inside your bathroom and spends an inordinate amount of time in there.

“Are you going through my medicine cabinet?” You call. You don’t get a response. You’re pretty sure that means he is. He comes out moments later, looking vaguely disappointed.

“What?” You ask, amused, “Didn’t find the sordid drug habit you were looking for?”

Instead of answering, he continues his inspection of your house in the kitchen.

“You cannot possibly live like this,” he insists in disbelief.

“What?” You ask, crunching on a carrot, “Normal?”

Kol seems strangely irate. You’d be wary if it wasn’t so funny. “This is not normal. What are your skeletons?”

“What, are you going to go all ‘what is your deepest, darkest desire’ on me?” You ask derisively. He bares his teeth.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I thought vampires couldn’t compel people who are on vervain.”

“Don’t worry,” he says pleasantly, “I can just bleed it out of you.”

“Hm,” you say, finishing your salad and resting your head on your hand, “That doesn’t sound enjoyable.”

He grins like a knife. “No,” he says, “I expect it isn’t.”

You’re not quite sure what Kol wants from you. Well, that’s not entirely true. You’re sure he would be exceedingly pleased if you confessed to a murder or something like that, but you don’t have any comparable crimes. The mistakes you’ve made in your life tend to only hurt yourself. (You don’t think Kol would count that).

“Do you want me to kill someone or something?”

He laughs. “If I thought I could get you to do it, yes.”

You can tell he means that, which is a little horrifying.

“What will it take for you to understand that most humans are good people who don’t do terrible things?” Kol’s lips curl.

“Do you truly believe that?”

You blink. “Of course.”

He looks at you like he thinks you’re an idiot. You get out of your seat and start cleaning up after yourself. Kol just watches you like he’s trying to dissect you with eyes alone. You struggle for words.

“Kol,” you finally say, “I think you spend a little too much time with vampires if you think I’m an anomaly.”

“No,” he refuses, “I’ve never met someone like you before.”

You turn to look at him and his eye are trying to bore into your skull. “Kol,” you say, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my whole life.”

His eyebrow twitches.

“I’ve lived for a thousand years,” he says imperiously, “The one human constant is their propensity for violence.”

You can’t find it in you to be annoyed. Kol’s misconceptions betray him. You wonder how he got to be a thousand years old without growing up. An uncomfortable wave of sympathy tries to crest in you.

Must be the psychology major in you.

“Kol,” you end up saying as gently as you can, “I don’t know a lot about your life, but people tend to attract what they put out.”

“What do you mean by that?” He mocks.

“You seem to me like a very angry person,” you say, “Unkindness inspires unkindness in others. No one is born evil, it’s created through years of injustices.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Whatever these inept instructors are teaching in schools these days is deplorable,” he says, but he’s more subdued than before. You don’t have a response so you fill up both of your glasses with more wine. You hand his to him.

“Join me in the living room?”

He accepts.

The tension has almost disappeared when there’s another knock at the door. You have the very strange feeling that you and Kol are bonding. (Worrying, for sure. But that’s a problem for future you to analyze). Kol isn’t brooding like before and you’re pleased to note that he seems more inebriated. Or that could just be you. One glass turns into two very quickly, you find. You stumble towards the door and it swings open.

“Oh, Elijah!” You say, delighted, “I forgot you were coming by.” No surprise considering you can’t seem to cling onto your thoughts for longer than thirty seconds at the moment.

His eyes slide past you to Kol sprawled in your arm chair like he owns the place. “I meant to come by earlier,” he says, eyes coming back to you, “My apologies.”

“Elijah!” Kol calls, “So nice to see you.” His tone is this side of malicious. You shoot him a look.

You turn your attention back to Elijah. “Please come in, Elijah,” you say politely. He obeys and steps inside. You close the door before more warm air can escape. It’s already cold enough inside.

“I didn’t know how long it would be before I can get groceries again, so the list is pretty long,” you apologize.

“That’s quite alright,” Elijah says, “We have people we can send as often as you’d like.” Your brief mental image of Elijah wandering around a generic grocery store dissipates.

“Minions, you mean,” Kol says with an uncaring grin.

Elijah inclines his head and doesn’t deny it.

“We live very different lives,” you blurt out. Elijah gives a half smile at that.

“It would be worrying if we did not.” He has a point there. His eyes glance over the collection of empty wine bottles in your living room to Kol still watching you in his chair.

“I confess I didn’t expect to see you here,” Elijah says, “Did you come to heal her just to ease your conscience?” Your brow furrows.

Kol bares his teeth. “I don’t have a conscience.”

“Wait—” you interrupt, “What?”

Elijah’s eyes flicker down to your neck and a strange expression dawns on his face. Your spine straightens.

“Kol,” you say, “What the fuck did you do?”

He glowers mutinously. “I did you a favor.” Anger like a coal rises in your cheeks.

“I didn’t fucking ask you to, did I?” You leave before he can respond, rushing to your bathroom. There’s no bruise around your neck anymore, the mottled greenish yellow faded back into your normal skin tone. You remember the glass of wine Kol poured for you, how strange it tasted, how it took away your growing headache.

“I’m going to kill him,” you growl and don’t mean it. You want to hide in your cramped bathroom, but you know you have to go back and face them. Well, you think, at least Elijah is here too. A witness in case Kol murders you. When you go back to your living room, Kol is gone. You look at Elijah with a waspish expression. He shifts.

“…I’m afraid most of my siblings are not good at confrontation when they know they’re in the wrong,” he says.

Your jaw tightens. “I see.” You suddenly wish you weren’t drunk anymore. “I’m guessing Klaus didn't tell him to come over for my protection either?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Elijah says apologetically. You rub your eyes, weary.

“Your family is a mess.”

“I am unfortunately aware.” He pauses and you can feel his eyes on you. “Here, sit. I’ll make you some tea.” He guides you over to one of your own arm chairs and drapes a blanket in your lap. He tucks it around your shoulders and you can feel the heat of his palm through the knit fabric. You shiver. The kitchen is only partially visible from the living room, but you watch Elijah move around like he’s always lived here. You take the intervening minutes to try and calm yourself. It doesn’t work.

You’re still angry. You haven’t felt like this in years.

Elijah comes back with two cups and he sits in the seat Kol vacated.

“Thanks,” you say. He put milk and honey in it, just like you usually do. You’re surprised he remembered.

“I sincerely apologize for Kol’s actions,” Elijah says, taking a sip, “But I know that means little.”

You give him a tight smile. “I appreciate it,” you say, “I’m more angry about him deceiving me.”

“He should be more careful. Vampire blood doesn’t just heal humans.”

Your brow furrows. “What else does it do?” Elijah pauses and settles his cup on a coaster.

“If a human dies with our blood in their system,” he says finally, “They will become a vampire as well.” 

The heat of your anger disappears to be replaced by cold dread.

“But it won’t kill me, right?”

Elijah shakes his head. “No, you’re quite alright,” he says, “Just be sure not to die.”

You force a smile. “I’ll do my best,” you say but the ball of anxiety in your chest doesn’t unravel. You suddenly want nothing more than to be alone. You must not be as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are, because Elijah stands up.

“I won’t intrude anymore on your day,” he says courteously, “I’ll see you soon, I expect.”

You want to be polite and tell him he doesn’t have to leave, but you really, really want him to.

“I’m sorry,” you say but he cuts you off.

“It’s quite alright, I understand.” He gives you a small smile and you can tell he means it. Relief washes over you.

“Thank you, Elijah,” you say.

“Enjoy your tea, I’ll have your groceries delivered tomorrow.” You nod at him and he leaves through the front door. You don’t hear the telltale sound of a car starting like you would with a normal guest. Your head feels heavy as you settle in your arm chair, staring blankly at the walls. You’ve never been the kind of person who’s life revolved around other people. Never kept the company of violent people. You feel that starting to change. Idly, you wonder how long it would take for the Mikaelsons to consume all of your boundaries— all of your time— if you let them. Your eyes try to blink close, earlier premonition coming true.

You’re starting to believe that this isn’t just a passing blip in your life. That this is permanent.

The thought sends you into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My classes start today and I am Less than enthused. But on the other hand I got to go back to my job at the bakery and eat all the brownie batter I could want :-) Tradeoffs.
> 
> Hope you guys like the chapter, updates may slow for a bit depending on how busy my schedule gets


	8. Macaron

Days pass without you seeing any of the Mikaelsons. Your groceries arrive on your doorstep, hand delivered by a very nice, very scared looking vampire. You thank them politely and they look like they’re going to die of fright. You briefly reflect on what the hell kind of family you’ve gotten involved with.

Well, you know the answer to that.

Kate calls you, an odd conversation. She asks you where you’ve been, why the managers have acted so strangely when she mentions your name. You don’t have any answers to give her. So, you lie.

(“I’m just taking some time off,” you had said, “It’s no big deal.”

“Well,” Kate said doubtfully, “If you say so.” She tells you your coworkers miss you).

The conversation is stilted in a way you’re not used to. When she hangs up it dawns on you that she’s the only human you’ve talked to in a week. That, you think, is not good. You need to talk to people outside of the vampires infesting your life.

Good luck with that.

You try to cling to your anger at Kol. You’re not very good at it. Quiet days at home cooking and cleaning supplant 9 hour shifts. You’re less stressed and it’s easier to find it in you to forgive him. You don’t want to. (Unfortunately, you were born too forgiving).

You wish you could stay mad. You come to the sharp conclusion that you desperately need to impose restrictions on the Mikaelsons. It would be so easy to get caught up in this— in them.

Thank you, addictive personality.

You funnel all of your energy into your passions. (But there are only so many pastries you can bake in a day). You have so much free time now that you even manage to feel bored. While cleaning out your bedroom, you find dusty acrylic paints in your closet. They aren’t opened and you spend the rest of the afternoon trying to teach yourself how to paint.

It doesn’t go well.

Even so, you stick it in an old picture frame that’s been hiding in your closet and put it in the living room. Satisfaction, you realize, comes in different forms.

The house is quiet. You’ve been living by yourself for over three months now, but you haven’t been home for this long in what feels like forever. It starts to feel distressingly like your childhood home. Loneliness encompasses you. You consider adopting a cat. You don’t think you could get Elijah to pick one up for you.

You hope Elijah comes back. You’re still wary of him, of course, but you’ve always been good at overcoming your instincts. Especially when he’s been so kind and you so starved for niceness.

You’re waiting at your breakfast bar for your macarons to come out of the oven when there’s a knock at your door. Part of you thinks it might be another grocery delivery. The larger part of you hopes it’s Elijah. It isn’t.

“Hello, love,” Klaus says, “Thought I should check in.” Despite being alone for several days, you still don’t feel up to navigating the minefield that is Klaus Mikaelson.

“I’m fine,” you say, “No break-ins, not even a stray raccoon.”

He smiles. “Glad to hear it.” He continues to stand on your doorstep and you can tell you’re not going to get rid of him. You stifle a sigh.

“I hope you like macarons.” You open the door for him. A grin flashes across his face.

“I quite enjoy them,” he muses, “A friend gifted me her own recipe in Paris in 1540, shortly after Catherine de’ Medici’s pastry chefs introduced them to France. I confess I haven’t had the opportunity to try it yet.”

Your eyes brighten. “Do you still have it?” He hums.

“I believe I do,” he thinks, “I’ll bring it to you next time.”

Despite your love for historical recipes, you know better than to take Klaus at his face value.

“Bribery is unbecoming,” you say dryly.

Klaus gets a mock offended look on his face.

“I am just being polite, someone told me I needed to work on my manners.”

‘Yeah, right’ is what you want to say to that, but you don’t.

“Go sit down,” you order, “Macarons will be out in five.” You take your strawberry compote out of the fridge and spoon it into a piping bag. Klaus takes the opportunity to wander in your living room, just out of sight.

“I see you’ve gotten into painting,” he calls out. You wrinkle your nose. You forgot you hung your attempt at a painting in there.

“If you can call it that,” you reply evenly when he rejoins you in the kitchen.

“I would,” he says, “Have you painted before?”

“Not seriously, I took a few art classes in high school.”

Klaus hums and takes a seat at your breakfast far, eyes sweeping over your mess of a kitchen. “Did you make your own jam?” He asks incredulously.

“Compote, but yes.”

“Why on Earth would you do that?”

You look at him. “I’ve been trapped in this house with nothing to do and an endless grocery budget,” you say, “I am doing whatever makes me happy.”

Klaus tilts his head, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Is this your way of saying I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long?” He asks, amused, “I’ll be sure and come by more often.”

You can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes at that one.

“Kol and Elijah came by already a few days ago,” you say. You think you might be imagining the way Klaus tenses in his chair, but you don’t want to test that theory.

“Oh?” He says, an edge in his voice, “My brothers seem to be fond of you.”

You snort. “Kol tried to strangle me to death and then tricked me into drinking his blood. Not exactly proof of ‘fondness’.” You don’t mention Elijah.

Klaus’s eyes drift to your neck and you know he’s looking for a bruise that doesn’t exist.

“He made you drink his blood?” He asks and there’s an undercurrent in his tone that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You don’t think it’s directed towards you this time. An odd feeling.

“… Not really, he slipped it into a glass of wine. I think he felt bad for hurting me.”

It’s when Klaus is staring at your neck with a mutinous, indeterminable expression that you realize that he’s jealous. You get the feeling you’re missing something. You have no idea how to deal with that, so you don’t.

Your timer dings and you take the macarons out of the oven. They still need to cool. You ready the rest of your ingredients before peeling them off the silicon baking sheet. Klaus watches you with careful eyes, you can feel them on your spine. You don’t turn around. You pipe a circle of strawberry compote around the border and fill in the middle with whipped cream. Using a sifter, you dust them with powdered sugar before putting them on a platter. You serve the first one you finish to Klaus.

“Tell me what you think?”

He takes it, fingers brushing against yours, and bites into it. He hums.

“Very good,” he declares, “Perhaps you have a point with making your own preservatives.”

You smile. “That’s high praise, coming from you. I’ll take it.”

“It’s well deserved, I assure you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

He grins. “I don’t believe it’s flattery if it’s true.”

You can’t stop your smile at that one. The unexpected camaraderie with Klaus of all people is a strange feeling. You’re not sure if it’s a good thing yet.

“Maybe your manners are getting better,” you comment.

“Thank you,” he says, “I have an excellent teacher.” You snort.

“Thanks,” you say dryly, “I’ll put that on my resume.”

“Have you ever thought about going into education?”

You blink. “Not particularly. But I also thought I would be a psychologist by now, so plans change.”

“You could go back to school.”

“Sure,” you say as you finish decorating the last of your macarons, “And go tens of thousands of dollars further in debt for a job I’m not even sure I want.”

Klaus steals another macaron. You take one for yourself and bite into it.

“What do you want?” He asks and he sounds like he genuinely wants to know the answer. You don’t have one to give him.

“I don’t know,” you confess, resting your arms on the counter, “Long-term, at least.”

He tilts his head. “Then what do you want now?”

What do you want?

You want a lot of things that you can’t have. Thinking about all of them makes your heart ache.

You want your childhood back. You want to be taken care of instead of always having to rely on yourself.

You want to be happy.

“It doesn’t really matter,” you say. Klaus looks like he doesn’t believe you.

“What?” He says, “No long-lost love?”

It’s so incongruent with your actual train of thought that a laugh bursts out of you. You and Klaus seem to be different on more fronts than you previously thought. (Well, you relent, you are two different species).

“Didn’t even cross my mind.”

“You are very unlike my sister,” Klaus muses, “I don’t think the two of you would get along at all.”

You wonder what the fourth Mikaelson is like.

“I’m sure I’d like her more than you,” you say and Klaus huffs a laugh.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you don’t like me.”

You manage to keep a straight face. “Well, it’s a good thing you know better.” Klaus’s lips curl.

“You get away with an awful lot more than I would allow from most people,” he comments.

“Why?”

You hope he doesn’t continue to insist you’re just a whim. Even if it’s true, you still don’t like it. You don’t know why it bothers you so much. (Not, you think, a feeling you want to examine too closely). To your surprise, he shrugs.

“I find you interesting,” he says.

“You sound like Kol.” Judging by the way his face tightens, he doesn’t appreciate the comparison.

“How so?”

“He seems to think I’m special because I haven’t killed anyone.”

Klaus lets out a full, loud laugh. You nearly jump from the sound.

“In our line of work,” he says with a grin, “That is indeed a rarity.”

“You are the strangest family I have ever met.”

“No odder than any other family,” he muses, “Give or take a millennia.”

“I don’t think that’s how the Tolstoy quote goes,” you say dryly, pushing yourself off the counter. You clean up the kitchen and Klaus, to your surprise, vacates his chair to help you.

“Why are you being so nice today?” You ask suspiciously. If he were human, you would say he was dying of cancer or something and trying to atone for his mistakes in the past. You don’t think vampires can get cancer, but more importantly you don’t see Klaus ever trying to repent for his sins. He gives you a very suspect looking grin.

“Do I need an ulterior motive to be kind?”

“Literally, yes.”

He corners you against the counter, but for once you don’t feel like you’re in danger. He uses his pointer finger to lift your chin up to stare into his too-pale eyes.

“Perhaps I just want to learn more about you. Maybe I’m trying to trick you. Or maybe,” he says, “I’ve just started to like you.”

Your heart is beating irregularly and you remember Kol’s comment from weeks ago, wondering if you had slept with his brother. You push Klaus away until you can breathe again.

“Well,” you say after a moment, “I hope it’s the last one.”

Klaus just laughs. He lets you have your space and you’re grateful.

“Tea?” You ask.

“Please,” he acquiesces. You have to brush past him to get to your tea cabinet. You don’t make vervain tea, even if it is your favorite. Klaus watches you as you ready two cups and take them to the living room. You each have another macaron.

“So,” you say once the two of you are settled in your respective arm chairs, “Any updates on the Salvatore front?”

He hums. “Not particularly. Their witch was scrying for your location.”

He says it so casually that you have to take a minute to realize the seriousness of his statement.

“Isn’t… that bad?”

“You’ll be fine,” he says dismissively, “Excluding the Salvatore brothers, the rest of them wouldn’t think to hurt you.”

“Why?”

His lips curl. “They’re kinder than my family. They would consider you an innocent.”

You think maybe it was not the right choice to become friends with a family of movie villains. (It’s not too late to nip this thing in the bud).

“Will you be okay?” You ask carefully. Klaus smiles.

“How sweet,” he comments, “We will be perfectly fine. The Salvatores do not pose much of a threat to my family, while they are incredibly irritating.”

“Will I just be stuck in this house forever?”

He inclines his head. “My apologies, love,” he says, “Better trapped than dead.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Is it though?” You ask. You don’t mean it. Well, at least not fully.

Klaus just smiles. “You’re welcome to go outside and forfeit your life if you so wish.” You set your cup on your end table.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, “I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I’m sure you can think of something,” Klaus says, amused.

You don’t know how to describe the itch under your skin. “If you say so,” you eventually say. Klaus looks like he can tell you don’t believe him.

“Here,” he says. He writes something down on a slip of paper, “This is my personal number in case you get bored.”

“That sounds like a booty call.”

Klaus just laughs. “I’m sure you would prefer if I sent Elijah over for that,” he says, amused.

You flush so hot you can feel it.

“What if you’re busy?” You ask, bypassing Klaus’s statement, “I don’t want to interrupt you from your movie villain plots.”

“I’m sure I can scrounge up a sibling who’s available.”

“What are you, a pimp?”

“More like a baby sitting service.”

You laugh. “You know,” you say, “I think this is the best any of our interactions have gone. You haven’t tried to kill me yet.”

“When will you let that go?” Klaus sighs.

“I’ll let it go if I ever make an attempt on your life. Fair’s fair.”

His teeth flash in a threatening grin. “Careful, love, or else I’ll take that seriously.” You get the feeling that he means it.

“Wow,” you say dryly, “Really can’t joke at all around here.” The hairs on your neck prick up.

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been told I lack a sense of humor.” He drains the rest of his tea. You’re long done with yours. He stands up and holds out his hand for your empty tea-cup and puts them in the kitchen for you. It’s so surprisingly thoughtful that you start to give more credence to your terminal-vampire-cancer theory.

“I should be off,” he says when he comes back, “I’ll make sure you’re not alone tomorrow.”

You offer him up a smile. “Can’t wait,” you say.

“I’ll be sure to get that macaron recipe into your hands at the soonest opportunity.”

“I appreciate it,” you say, “Thank you, Klaus.”

Klaus looks at you for a moment longer, eyes wandering over your face, before leaving. Cold air rushes in your house before dissipating. You’re struck by the strange thought that Klaus is genuinely trying to become your friend. And against all odds you find yourself, disgustingly, starting to like Klaus in return.

You wonder if it counts as Stockholm Syndrome if it’s just friendship.

Your old psychology professors would probably have a thing or two to say about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started birth control for the first time three weeks ago and I've been so wildly depressed from it this week that I didn't think I would have the energy to update today. Then I remembered that I love attention and the comments I get off this fic fuel me for weeks. (Plus a very nice anonymous on tumblr encouraged me <3) Love you guys


	9. Dulce de Leche

You spend your morning in bed, far later than you usually do. You wonder if Klaus will really come today.

A few weeks ago, the thought would have struck dread into the pit of your stomach. Now you’re actively anticipating your next visit. You’re well aware that you’re being an idiot, you could find a way out of this mess if you really wanted to. (If there’s one thing you know, it’s that there’s always a way out). You don’t know if you do anymore.

The thought is terrifying.

You don’t feel like baking today and there’s only so much cleaning you can do. You need to find a new hobby. There’s only so much you can do with four bottles of acrylic paint. You find your stash of board games with the vague intention of playing solitaire. You manage to find an old card deck with kittens plastered on them. It’s all set up when there’s a knock at the door.

“I was told you were growing bored in your confinement,” Elijah says smoothly, “I bring entertainment.”

Your eyes gaze over the stack of books and DVDs he carries.

“I can see that,” you say, “Please come in.”

He smiles and enters.

“I don’t know why it’s surprising that you know what a movie is, but it is.”

“I’m a thousand years old, not incapable,” he says, amused.

You think of your parents who barely know what Wifi is.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

His lips curve. “What is your plan for the day?”

You shrug. “I didn’t have one until you showed up. Have anywhere to be?” He hums.

“Not particularly.”

You smile.

“Excellent.”

You put in one of Elijah’s movies (he brought over possibly the most eclectic collection you’ve ever seen, but you did manage to find the original Mummy). The black and white title screen pulls up and you press play. You pull out scrabble.

“How do you feel about board games?”

Elijah, surprisingly, likes them.

“I’d play chess with you if I wasn’t horrendous,” you say dryly as you set up the board. You sweep your game of solitaire to the floor. He just laughs.

“Niklaus and I have been playing the same game for three hundred years now. He’s an insufferable cheat.”

“Yeah,” you say, amused, “He gives me that impression.”

Elijah smiles.

You look away as he settles in one of your arm chairs. You wrap a blanket around yourself. It’s almost the time of the year to put plastic wrap on the windows. Elijah notices you shivering.

“Do you have a fireplace?”

You shake your head. “No, unfortunately. I think I have a space heater around here somewhere.”

Elijah finds it for you and sets it up in the living room. He faces it towards you.

“Do you get cold?” You ask, giving Elijah his tiles. He sets them up on the tile stand.

“If you mean can we feel it, yes,” he says, “But it doesn’t carry the same connotations that it does when you’re human. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s just there.”

“Do you have to breathe?”

“To stay conscious, yes, but we won’t die.”

You’re not quite sure how that works.

He motions for you to go first. You examine your tiles and carefully lay down VET. Elijah makes it plural by playing TEMPS across the bottom.

“That cannot count.”

Elijah just shrugs and you see the corner of his mouth twitch. You play TEN and Elijah responds with CAPS.

“I thought vampires burn in the sun,” you say, “Is that a myth too?”

Elijah doesn’t blink at your series of questions. “Most can’t,” he says, “They need rings enchanted by a witch or they will die.”

“They?”

“My family is… stronger than other vampires.”

You lay down ANGRY on the board.

“Any chance on getting you to elaborate on that?”

His lips curve. “I believe I’ll leave that for my brother.”

“Klaus doesn’t tell me anything,” you say and Elijah seems surprised. He looks like he’s about to say something, but instead he plays MALT.

“What does he tell you?” Elijah eventually asks. You just shrug.

“Nothing, really,” you say, “Last time we just talked about recipes. I honestly think he only comes over when he’s bored.”

Elijah hums.

“I doubt that.”

You play LIE and land on a triple point square.

“Why?”

“My brother is never bored,” Elijah says dryly, “He has far too many enemies.”

“If you can find an alternate explanation for why he keeps showing up at my house, be my guest.”

“I originally believed he was plotting something with you,” Elijah says and you blink.

“What made you believe otherwise?”

“Nothing showed up on our… ‘background check’.”

“You googled me?”

He plays LIES and hums. “Not quite. You’ve truly never had any interaction with the supernatural before, have you?”

“No,” you say, “I haven’t.”

Elijah is quiet for a moment and you sort your tiles without seeing them.

“I think sometimes we forget,” he eventually says, “That there are innocents in the world when ours is so dark.”

“So I’m an innocent?”

Elijah flashes you a smile. “In the context of my family’s lives, you could say that.”

“Well,” you say, “I guess I’d rather be considered harmless than dangerous.”

“Yes,” Elijah says, “I would think so.”

You re arrange your tiles and avoid eye contact for a moment.

“Is that why you really met me?” You ask carefully, “Because you thought I was a threat?”

Elijah pauses for a moment. You play GNATS. Elijah responds with SANTA.

“I may have engineered our meeting,” Elijah admits.

“Then why are you still here?”

Elijah looks up from the board to glance at you, false question in his gaze. You continue.

“You must have figured out by now I’m not hiding anything,” you say dryly.

If he hasn’t, then he’s a worse detective than you thought. He’s silent for a moment and his answer lays unwritten in the open air. Your heart sinks.

“I try to keep an eye on all of Niklaus’s preoccupations,” he says, “He does not always have the best judgement.”

“I’m guessing you’re the oldest.”

He looks at you, amused. “Nearly,” he says and doesn’t elaborate.

You quietly continue to play the game and Elijah continues to collect more points. You find it odd that Elijah thinks you’re a danger to his family. You wonder if Klaus thinks that too. (No, you think to yourself, Klaus would kill you the minute he suspected you of trying to harm his family). You wonder what it’s like to not be able to trust anyone you meet.

“I feel like I should accuse you of cheating,” you say when you near the end of the game, “But I think I’m just bad at this game.”

“I wouldn’t say that, “ Elijah says, amusement lacing his voice.

“You wouldn’t say it because it’s rude, not because it’s not true.”

He just smiles.

You count up your points and Elijah wins by a landslide. The Mummy is only halfway done.

“Where did you get all the movies?” You ask, “You don’t strike me as a film person.”

“You’re half right,” he hums, “I borrowed them from Kol’s collection. The books are from me.”

Not a good move. He’s already avoiding you over the blood debacle.

“He’s not going to kill me over them, will he?”

Elijah’s lips curve. “Doubtful he’ll even notice they’re gone.”

“I’ll haunt you if he kills me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where human souls go when they pass on,” Elijah says, “I don’t know if you’ll have the means to haunt me.”

“Every time I see one of you I learn something I never wanted to know.”

Elijah inclines his head. “This must be very confusing for you.”

“You could say that,” you mutter. You wrap your blanket tighter around you. Elijah watches you, eyes dancing over your face.

“I’m sorry you got involved in this.”

“As long as I can get uninvolved in it.”

“Is that what you want?”

You hesitate and burrow into your chair. “It’s not like that’s possible right now.”

“I don’t believe that’s what I asked.”

You don’t know what to say. (Not quite true, you just don’t know how to say it). You settle for what you think is the truth.

“No,” you say, “I don’t.”

Elijah’s eyes examine you so deeply you almost look away. You stop yourself.

“Do you want some tea?” You ask, just to break the silence.

“Yes,” he says, “I rather think I would.”

You heat water and pull out plain black tea. Elijah stands at your breakfast bar.

“No vervain for you?” He asks lightly, “I was under the impression it was your favorite.”

You hesitate while putting in the tea bag.

“It is,” you say, “I just didn’t want to… you know—”

“Please,” he says, “Don’t stop on my account.”

If this were Klaus or Kol, you would say this is a trick. You’re still not sure if it is or not. Hesitantly, you pull out your tin of vervain tea. You make it plain and serve Elijah’s his separate cup. He takes it politely.

“Thank you.”

He follows you back into the living room, the movie is still playing. You play another game of scrabble and you learn Elijah doesn’t know how to play Spoons. You frown.

“I’d teach you, but you can’t really play with two people,” you say regretfully.

Elijah seems mildly amused.

“Perhaps when there’s more of us.”

“That might be smart,” you hum, “To have all of you here at the same time.”

“Oh?”

His tone is this side of suspicious.

“I’d like this Damon situation resolved sooner rather than later,” you say dryly. Elijah relaxes minutely.

“Yes,” he says, “I rather think you would.”

The movie ends and he finishes his tea. You’re about to offer him another cup when he gets up as if to leave.

“Tell Klaus thanks for sending you over.”

He looks at you, amused.

“Oh, I volunteered.”

You don’t know what to make of that, so you don’t say anything. You bid him goodnight as he leaves and lock the door behind him. He leaves the books and movies and you examine the stack of paperbacks. They’re well worn, you note. You trace the browned paper with your fingertips.

You wonder what it will take for Elijah to trust you.

(Time, you suspect).

You fall asleep easy that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your nice comments on the last chapter, I did end up calling my doctor and I'm going off this pack once it's empty :-) BC sucks!
> 
> Also, here's my tofu scramble recipe:  
> \- One bell pepper  
> \- an onion (I'm a vidalia person)  
> \- A medium tomato  
> \- half package extra firm tofu  
> \- An egg  
> \- whatever spices you want (I always use some black/white pepper, seasoning salt, ginger powder, paprika, etc). 
> 
> 1\. Press tofu for 30 minutes in a clean towel  
> 2\. While tofu is draining, sauté veggies in a little bit of olive oil & salt and pepper  
> 2\. Once tofu is done, tear it into small pieces. Shake it in a container with your spices and an oil (I like sesame oil but you can use whatever). Add to pain  
> 3\. Sauté together until cooked. Tofu won't necessarily brown, but it will get a little crispy.  
> 4\. Fry an egg over easy and put it on top
> 
> Bon appetit


	10. Crème Pat

Klaus, it seems, breaks his promise to you. Not even Elijah stops by. You’ve been left alone for so long you start to feel as if you’re losing your mind. Before this you never realized how much you need being around people. You wouldn’t even mind seeing Kol. You try to distract yourself with more baking. It doesn’t quite work.

You’re boiling water for your bagels when there’s a knock at your door. At this point it would be easier if the Mikaelsons just moved in with you, you think. You’d be less lonely.

“Klaus, thank—” You break off.

“Sorry to disappoint,” a young blond girl who looks remarkably like Klaus says, “My brother is indisposed at the moment.”

You pause.

“Did you kill him?”

Her lips twitch. “No,” she says, “Not quite.”

“Good. He owes me a macaron recipe.”

The girl’s lips widen to a stark, wide grin. “Pretty and funny,” she says before looking pointedly towards the inside of your house, “Now, are you going to invite me in or what?”

You pause and have a moment where you wonder if that’s a good idea. You hesitate and Rebekah’s gaze sharpens.

Well, you think to yourself, if you don’t she could always burn your house down.

“Come in.”

She grins and steps inside. Surprisingly, she doesn’t attack you. She sniffs the air.

“Are you baking something?” She asks.

“Bagel dough rising,” you say, “Want one?”

She nods and follows you into your kitchen. She watches you with idle interest as you shape the bagels and put them in your pot of boiling water.

“So why has my brother been hiding you?”

You shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Are you a witch?”

You laugh. “No,” you say, “I’m just human.”

She tilts her head in the same way Klaus does.

“Hm,” she says, eyes sliding over your home, “What are your intentions with my brothers?”

“I don’t have any,” you say honestly. Rebekah looks like she doesn’t believe you. You want to make a joke about her sudden inquisition. You suspect it wouldn’t go over well. Hesitating, you try again. “I’m not trying to hurt your family, Rebekah.”

Her lips twitch. “That would be a first.” She takes a seat at your breakfast bar like she lives there.

“Please,” you say dryly, “Take a seat.” She ignores you.

“Most people would have run by now if they were in your position.”

“How threatening,” you comment. Rebekah keeps looking at you and you can tell she won’t let you avoid the implicit question. You shift against the counter. “I’m not really in a position to run,” you say, “I don’t even think I’d want to if I could.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve started to like them,” you admit, “I’d like us to be friends too.”

Rebekah pauses.

“I don’t have good experience with female friends,” she settles on.

“Sounds like you don’t know how to pick them.”

Rebekah smiles grudgingly. “I suppose you have a point.”

You take out your bagels and brush them with an egg wash. The oven heats the kitchen when you open it.

“So why has Klaus kept you away from me for so long?” You ask as you set a timer for the bagels.

“Technically he still thinks we haven’t met yet,” she says, “I slipped out of the house.”

Your brow furrows. “Why not?”

“I believe he’s afraid I was going to slit your throat.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have invited her in so easily.

“Ah,” you say, “That’s not ideal.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’re far less irritating than Nik’s usual obsessions.”

You blink. “Thank you,” you say, “Should I be worried that Klaus is going to show up and throw a tantrum?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she hums, “The Salvatores daggered him so he’ll be down for at least the rest of the day.”

Your face drops. (Stop worrying about a bunch of murderers, you scold yourself).

“Shouldn’t you be helping him?”

Rebekah rolls her eyes, but there’s a peculiar light in her eye when she looks at you. “My brother is a cockroach, he’ll be fine.”

You start to wonder if all families are this cavalier about their siblings.

“Well,” you say, “As long as he’s okay, I guess.”

Rebekah keeps looking at you with an expression you can’t interpret.

“He will be,” she says eventually.

“So how did you find out about me?”

“Kol broke first,” she says, “He’s been moping about lately. Frankly, I was getting tired of it.”

“I don’t see how that pertains to me.”

She gives you an expression you recognize from your days as a teenager.

“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“You are,” Rebekah realizes, “I suppose I can see why Klaus likes you. Besides the fact you haven’t tried to kill him yet.”

“… Is that… very common?”

She nods. “You would be surprised.”

“No, I don’t think I would,” you say dryly, thinking back on almost all of your interactions with Klaus.

“It gets tiring dealing with it all,” she sighs, like she’s talking about having to go grocery shopping in the rain instead of life and death. You look at her, mildly amused.

“I bet.” You ponder on the inter-dynamics of the Mikaelson family and come to the conclusion that you are not qualified enough to understand them. Maybe if you get your Master’s. “Has Klaus considered that if he stopped attacking people he would have to deal with less assassination attempts?”

“I don’t think he’s entertained the thought, no.”

“Yeah,” you say, ”I didn’t think so.”

“He’s much more of a ‘heads will roll’ kind of person.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say dryly. 

Rebekah just shrugs. “We all have our hobbies,” she says, “I like clothes, Elijah likes redecorating, Klaus likes murdering people. And painting, I suppose.”

Briefly, you remember your attempt at a painting sitting in your living room. You’ll take it down later.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Quite. I’m sure he’ll have his fun with the Salvatores once his body rejects the dagger.”

There is literally no way to interpret that. Sometimes you feel like the Mikaelsons are speaking a completely different language. None of Elijah’s novels contained any information about vampires. (A strategical decision, you’re sure). You want to know more.

“If I asked very nicely,” you say, “Could your family make a supernatural encyclopedia for me? I can’t keep up with all of this.” Rebekah even smiles at that.

“We do lead a complicated existence.”

“At least send me a newsletter; there are too many of you to keep track of.”

“Apologies,” Rebekah says dryly, “If it makes you feel better, I rarely know what my brother is doing either.”

Your timer goes off and you take your bagels out of the oven. A cloud of steam hits your face.

“Cream cheese?”

“Please.”

Rebekah is halfway through her bagel by the time she remembers to speak.

“I suppose this is the other reason Nik seems to be preoccupied with you,” she says, “These are quite good.”

You smile wryly. “Thanks, I’ll use them to lure your brothers over so they’ll keep me in the loop.

“You know,” she says, “That’s not a half-bad idea.”

“… What do you mean?”

“A dinner party would solve all of our problems.”

You don’t like the idea of having the entire Mikaelson family in your home. You also don’t like the idea of planning it with your newest acquaintance of the Mikaelson family. (You’re not sure yet whether she takes after Elijah or Kol in aggression).

“There’s a high chance my house would be rubble at the end of the evening.”

Rebekah shrugs. “We can always fix it,” she says nonchalantly.

You rub your temples.

You end up pulling out your recipe box for meal-planning while Rebekah watches.

“Are you certain I can’t do any decorating?” Rebekah questions. You don’t like the way she’s looking around your house.

“Positive.” Her expression darkens and you start to feel somewhat bad. “You can move around the furniture, you just can’t buy anything.”

You suspect the warning is needed.

“Hmph,” she says. She takes her bagel with her.

Rebekah trashes your house while you meal plan. You suppose there are worse sacrifices to make to appease a temperamental vampire.

You’ve been on the wrong end of a couple of those sacrifices. This, in comparison, is far more pleasant. You’re used to the feeling that you’ve lost control of your live (especially lately). Yet another reason you should sit the Mikaelsons down and set boundaries their presence in your life. If you give a Klaus a cookie…

You cough to avoid laughing and having to explain your train of thought to Rebekah. “Are there any foods I should avoid?” You ask.

“It’s not like we have allergies,” Rebekah says dryly. You level a look at her.

“Thanks for that,” you say, “I meant more along the lines of food preferences.”

“We’re a thousand years old. We have refined palettes.” You put the card for rosemary chicken aside for consideration. “Although,” Rebekah tacks on, “Kol does hate seafood.”

Your nose wrinkles. “My opinion of him just dipped dramatically.” Surprising considering he already tried to strangle you. Taking a shovel to rock bottom. 

“I’ll let him know,” she says, amused, “Do you happen to have a dining room that I haven’t seen?”

You shake your head and it sparks something in the back of your head. “Shit,” you say belatedly, “I don’t have a dining table.” Rebekah hums.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says.

“You are not buying me a table.”

“You don’t have anywhere else in your house where you can accommodate four guests,” Rebekah argues, “It is not truly a gift if it’s born of selfishness.”

“… Fine.” You’d feel bad if you didn’t suspect that the Mikaelsons were loaded.

“What’s the room at the end of the hall?”

“Empty bedroom.”

She looks at you strangely. “Why on Earth are you not using it? Your home is already small enough.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly, “And it’s my roommate’s old room. She moved out a few months ago.” And left you covering her rent. Forgiveness may be in your nature, but you’re still mad about that.

“Well,” Rebekah sniffs, “In that case I’ll work on converting it.”

That sounds an awful lot like something that will get your security deposit revoked. You’re about to remind her she’s only allowed to rearrange when your door opens. You wonder if any of the Mikaelsons know how to knock.

“Well,” Elijah comments as he enters, “This is an unexpected sight.”

“Elijah,” You say, “I’m so glad to see you.” He gives you a small smile of his own. A weight lifts.

The loneliness that’s infested your heart starts to sink back into the depths it came from.

“Likewise,” he says, “I see you’ve met my sister.”

“How did you find me?”

“You are quite predictable.” Rebekah makes a noise of dissatisfaction. “And,” Elijah continues, “You tend to do the opposite of whatever Klaus wants. As of right now, Klaus wants her alive.”

A chill goes down your spine.

You turn around to look wordlessly at Rebekah.

“I didn’t!” She rebuts.

“You understand how that doesn’t make it better.”

“What can I say,” Rebekah says, “Your bagels won me over.”

You think this is the third time you’ve won a vampire over with your baking. Perhaps you should write that down in your Vampirism Dissertation. The breaking of bread. (Your English literature class is coming back to haunt you). 

“I see the two of you are getting along better than Klaus thought,” Elijah comments.

“She’s much more likable than I expected.”

“… Thanks.”

Rebekah smiles, wide and charming. “You’re quite welcome.”

This family is exhausting.

“Is Klaus ok?” You ask Elijah.

“He’s been up and wreaking havoc for nearly an hour,” he answers dryly, “I suspect he’ll come visit soon.” A wave of relief washes over you. You hadn’t realized how worried you were.

Concerning.

“Actually,” Rebekah interjects, “We have an idea.”

Elijah seems even more receptive to your half-baked idea of a dinner than you expected. You suspect it’s because Rebekah is the one suggesting it. (“Must it be for dinner?” He asks, giving you a sidelong glance, “Our family has a less than positive track record with dinner parties.” Rebekah just snorted and told him he’s coming over to a professional chef’s home. You don’t care enough to correct her. Or to deal with the suspicion in Elijah’s eyes).

“I don’t know if the spare room has enough light to be a dining room,” Elijah says.

“We could always put another window in.”

“Um,” you say.

“Not before the weekend,” Elijah counters, “That might be a more long-term solution.”

“You guys remember I’m renting this house, right?”

Elijah and Rebekah stare at you blankly. You wonder what it’s like to have such a loose grasp on reality.

"You can’t just tear holes in the wall,” you say, “I do not own the building.”

“We can always just compel the land lord,” Elijah dismisses.

“Or better yet,” Rebekah tacks on, “We could just get her the deed.”

“This has officially spiraled out of control.”

You can see that they’re not listening to you.

“If the two of you want to get me a house,” you try to reason, “I do not want this one.”

“Hm,” Elijah muses, eyeing your home critically “I suppose you have a point.”

“Let’s focus on meal planning please,” you beg. The two of them end up helping you. You don’t let them see what card you pick out for dessert. You want at least some semblance of surprise.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help in the kitchen?” Rebekah asks.

“I am literally a chef.”

“The offer stands,” Elijah says.

“I appreciate the thought, but I promise I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come over before everyone else to help you get dressed,” Rebekah interjects.

“I can get dressed on my own.”

“Sure,” she says, and you get the feeling she doesn’t believe you. You’re starting to feel like a rag doll.

“This isn’t going to be formal.”

“Of course,” Elijah lies.

As much as you’re starting to like the Mikaelsons, you need to be able to leave your house again or you will go clinically insane. You must say that aloud because they both laugh. Rebekah tells you not to worry, they’ll make sure to visit you in the mental hospital. Her grin is sharp when she says it.

“This was surprisingly enjoyable,” Rebekah says, eyeing you with a sharp examination, “I’m glad I disobeyed Nik.”

Elijah hums. “He’s not going to be too happy when he finds out.”

“I’ll protect you,” you reassure her, only half joking.

“Thanks,” she says wryly, “That’ll stop him from putting a dagger in my heart.”

“What?”

Elijah says something in an ancient-sounding language you can’t begin to recognize. Rebekah falls silent. Tension bleeds into the air.

“So,” you say, “I’m guessing you guys aren’t going to tell me why you’re acting strange?”

“It’s not suitable discussion for event planning.”

Sure.

“Rule one of keeping secrets is to not act weird about it,” you point out.

“Ah,” Elijah says, “Perhaps you have a point there.” Rebekah remains quiet.

You stash away your recipe cards, avoiding the awkward air the Mikaelsons have created. You’re about to offer them tea when they stand up to leave.

“Allow us a few days to convince our siblings,” Elijah says, “We’ll send word for the date.” He presses a kiss on your palm. You flush and bid them goodbye.

You clean up after they leave and put your bagels away. There aren’t many left. You sit at your breakfast bar with a cup of vervain and think about your upcoming dinner date. You’ve always known Klaus was dangerous (the knowledge forced upon you without asking), but you suspect that the rest are just as murderous. Great observation skills there.

It helps that you think the Mikaelsons are starting to like you. (Not that you know why. Even your bagels aren’t quite that good). But you know if they didn’t this adventure would end with your death.

It still might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was genuinely not going to update this week because I've been so busy but then I remembered I love attention. This fic has garnered a ridiculous amount of kudos very quickly, so thank you all very much! Love you bunches. 
> 
> Also my birthday is on Friday so I am accepting comments as birthday presents ;-)


	11. Profiterole

“Dear,” Kol says, “Why are you forcing me to spend time with my family in your very small, very breakable home?”

Out of all the things you expected today, this wasn’t one of them.

“Hi Kol,” you say as you turn off the heat for your pot on the stove, “What ever happened to knocking?”

“I brought wine if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

You block the doorway and Kol’s smile fades. You tilt your head.

“A little birdie told me you’ve been moping.”

He scowls. “Bex has always been loose lipped.”

You remain silent.

“… I’m sorry,” he says. He’s subdued in a way you haven’t seen before. “I’ve been avoiding you on purpose.”

“Are you sorry for avoiding me or forcing me to drink your blood?” You ask dryly. Kol bristles.

“The blood,” he says shortly, “Are you going to accept my apology or not?”

You study him.

“That is not an apology, Kol,” you say, “Apologies aren’t words. They’re actions.”

Kol’s jaw clenches. Some dark part of you takes satisfaction in his anger. You consider sending him away to sulk by himself. (It’s the least he deserves, you tell yourself). But you don’t. You move out of the doorway to let him inside. He steps inside silently, looking down at you with dark eyes.

“Don’t do it again,” you say simply.

He just tilts his head and nods. You get the strange feeling he means it. You leave him by the door and turn the heat back on your burner.

“No pastries today?” He asks, breaking the silence. He’s still on edge.

“I thought it was time for real food.”

“What are you making?”

“French onion soup,” you say, looking over your shoulder, “Want some?”

He says he doesn’t, but he still takes a bowl when you’re done. You take your bread out of the oven. Sourdough.

“Rebekah isn’t what I expected,” you say when you’re both settled at the breakfast bar.

“Do tell.”

His eyes glitter.

“She said Klaus didn’t want us to meet because she would kill me.”

“Yes,” Kol says without hesitating, “That seems likely.”

“— And yet he had no problem with locking you in my house. I was expecting someone more unstable.”

Kol inclines his head. “You haven’t seen her at her most unstable yet, darling,” he says with a grin, “She can be quite wild, that one.”

“She seems no wilder than you.”

“She’s also a bit of a harlot,” he says.

You pause. “And you aren’t? You’re rather pretty.”

Kol brightens into a wide grin. “You think I’m pretty!” He says.

“Don’t make me regret saying that.”

Kol keeps grinning at you.

You break off a piece of baguette and dip it in your soup.

“How’s Klaus?” You ask. He still hasn’t come by.

“Wouldn’t know,” he says, “We’ve been avoiding each other.”

“… Can I ask why?”

“He seems to disapprove of everything I do,” Kol says with some measure of genuine irritation, “He has a habit of sticking me in a box every time he deems it necessary.”

You pause, spoon stilling midair. You wonder if this has anything to do with what Rebekah wanted to say last night. You want to ask, but you don’t.

“Well if you ever need somewhere to hide out, you’re welcome here.”

He looks at you, eyes glittering.

“Do you mean that?”

“As long as you don’t trick me into drinking your blood again, then yes.”

An uninterpretable expression passes over Kol’s face.

“I said I was sorry.”

“How old were you when you were turned?” Kol blinks at the non sequitur.You feel some sort of amusement at his confused expression.

“Eighteen.”

“Have you ever read Interview with a Vampire?” You ask.

“… I have not.”

“There’s a character who’s turned as a child and never grows up or matures, even though she lives for centuries.”

His expression clears and darkens.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?” You say, biting into your bread. (Maybe, you think, Kol doesn’t even have the capabilities to be apologetic, at least not in the way people older than you can. Maybe Kol’s id just runs in whatever direction it chooses).

“There’s some truth to your words,” he admits, “But not the way you think.”

The steam from your soup warms your face. Kol’s bowl sits abandoned. He pauses before continuing.

“It’s true that vampire children cannot mature,” he says and you’re surprised he says anything at all, “It’s the reason why they tend not to survive. They’re reckless in ways that adult vampires are not.” He suddenly looks up at you. You’re struck by the heat in his eyes. “I was not a child when I was turned. I doubt I was a child when I was born.”

You understand.

(You too, were made to mature at a young age).

You reach across the counter to hold his hand. He seems startled at the touch.

“I’m sorry for assuming,” you say quietly.

He eyes you for a moment, pondering. He must come to some sort of decision because he drains his soup and stands up.

“I got you something.”

“Why do I feel scared?”

Kol grins.

“It’s a good gift, I promise.”

You finish your soup, watching Kol as he ducks out onto your porch. He comes back with a record player. It’s not one of those $40 plastic ones you can find online, it looks like it’s made of solid mahogany.

“Kol…”

“Before you protest, this is mostly selfish. If I’m forced to be here with my family, I at least want to be able to drown them out.”

You remain tense. “Are you sure it’s not an apology gift?” 

He looks at you unblinkingly.

“Positive,” he says. You want to believe him. You force your muscles to unknot themselves.

“Then fine. You can put it in the living room.” You can feel his eyes on you as he passes through your entry way.

The wine, now this.

It sets you on edge.

Kol comes back and he must see something on your face. He pauses and some flash of emotion passes over him. You’re struck by the strange fact that Kol is _worried_.

“This isn’t—” Kol breaks off, “This isn’t bribery.”

“Isn’t it?”

His shoulders hunch down.

“It was a little, but not if it makes you…”

He trails off again. Today is a day for firsts.

“Kol, do you know why I don’t like apology gifts?”

“Because you’re irritatingly different from the countless humans I’ve met.”

“Incorrect,” you say dryly, “People who hurt other people use gifts to soften the blow and make up for it. But they don’t change. They keep hurting that person.”

Kol, if it’s possible, looks even more uncomfortable.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Are you sure?”

He bristles. “It’s just a record player.”

It’s not just a record player, you want to say. It’s never just a record player. 

“… I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one day. You suspect that’s a record for him. You decide to take it easy on him. Just the once.

“Thank you, Kol.”

He unfurls. “Want to crack open the wine? It’s from your birth year.”

Oh boy.

You start to suspect Kol is a blossoming alcoholic

(Or maybe just a full-blown one, you consider as he leans back in his arm chair laughing to himself. He has had a thousand years to develop a tolerance).

“I can’t believe Elijah stole my movies,” Kol says and takes a moment to consider. “Actually, I can imagine it. It’s still beneath him.” You offer to give them back, but Kol refuses and tells you he has enough at home.

“I think he just wanted to cheer me up,” you say dryly, “Or at least butter up.”

Kol’s head snaps up. “Butter you up for what?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? Elijah thinks I’m plotting to kill you all.”

“Did he say that?”

“It was implied.”

“Hm,” Kol says, “He’s dumber than I thought if he thinks you’re any threat.”

“I feel like that’s an insult.”

His lips curve and he gives no answer. You drink the rest of your wine.

“Not that I don’t love wine, but have you considered expanding to cocktails?”

Kol shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “Too inefficient.”

“Not if you make them right.”

He cracks a smile.

“I suppose you have a point.” He looks around your living room. “Bex picked out nice furniture. Elijah must have helped.”

“Don’t remind me,” you grumble, “I told her she could get a dining table and she got a couch.”

Couch is underselling it. You’re not sure where she found the teal velvet settee sitting in your living room, but you love it despite your intentions.

“Did she get a dining table?”

You snort. “Of course she did.”

Regretfully, Rebekah has excellent taste.

He opens another bottle of wine. (You had thought he only brought the one. How foolish of you. He’s gone through at least 7 already).

“Why do you collect movies if you haven’t even been in this decade that long?” You ask once you’re sufficiently drunk.

Kol hesitates before answering.

“Media is often the best way to interpret new eras. Films are just a new concept to me.”

You wonder what it’s like to miss such a large chunk of time.

“Why would you sleep for that long?”

Kol’s lips twitch.

“I suggest asking my brother that.”

You know he means Klaus. Asking Klaus anything has never gone well.

“I don’t feel like getting my head bitten off,” you say dryly, “Is everyone showing up for the dinner tomorrow?”

“Well,” Kol says, “I’m here currently, so yes. Rebekah and Elijah planned it with you and Nik will do anything you want. It’s a safe bet on all counts.”

“Why would Klaus do anything I want?”

“For all of your talk about how I’m a child, you certainly are stupid.”

You balk. “I resent that.”

Kol just rolls his eyes and knocks back his glass.

“Ridiculous,” he sighs.

He’s rather bold for someone who breaks into your house once a week. He turns to you with a plaintive look.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“No.”

Kol’s face grows annoyed. “You haven’t even heard it.”

“I don’t need to.”

Kol’s pleading eyes break into irritation. “You are, by far, one of the most annoying people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“I feel the same.” You clink your glasses together with a grin. Kol’s lips twitch against his will.

“Did you mean it when you said I could hide out here?”

You suspect you know where this is going.

“… Yes.”

“Let me stay tonight.”

“Excuse you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Not like that.” Better not be, you think. “I don’t want to have to face Nik.”

“… Why, exactly?”

“I may have done something… ill-advised.”

“Do I dare ask?”

Kol tilts his head. “I don’t suppose you know who Silas is?” At your blank expression, he continues. "In the most simplified words possible: I confronted The Salvatores and Co about something they’ve been looking into. They nearly killed me. Nik’s rather upset.”

“Are you okay?” You ask, aghast.

His lips curve into a grin. “I never knew you cared.”

“Nevermind,” you say, “I don’t care anymore.”

“So is that a yes?”

“I don’t have a guest room,” you hedge, “Just the settee.”

“I would sleep on the floor for a week if it meant I could avoid Nik.”

“Am I really your only option?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

He just smiles. You sigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You can stay. You’re staying in the living room.”

Kol, unsurprisingly, does not stay in the living room.

“Your couch is uncomfortable,” he complains. You jump when you see him standing in your doorway.

“No it’s not,” you say, “Rebekah said it’s feather stuffed.”

“It’s cold.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes,” Kol agrees, “It does.”

He’s still standing in your doorway. You shift underneath your quilt, cold creeping through your thin pajamas. Cold that Kol barely even feels as a vampire.

“Fine,” you sigh, “Come on.”

You can’t see Kol’s face, but you can feel it brighten. He crawls onto the other side of the bed.

“Does your family not understand boundaries or is it a choice?”

“It’s typically a choice,” Kol says, curling up under the blanket. He keeps a foot of empty space between you.

You’re grateful.

“Getting me drunk just to get in my bed,” you say dryly, “Kol, I thought better of you.” You hear rather than see Kol’s grin. When he speaks, his voice is uncomfortably close to your ear.

“Trust me, dearest,” he murmurs, “If it happens, I wouldn’t let you be anything other than sober.”

Unexpected heat passes through you. You expect to feel more uncomfortable than you do. Not two weeks ago he tried to kill you.

You roll over and go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the birthday wishes last chapter :-) I love you guys. Also every comment will receive a Fun Fact because I am full of random knowledge


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